GIFT   OF 


djUtA+^ry^  *7c 


INDIAN  LEGENDS 

OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
HANFORD  LENNOX  GORDON 


PUBLISHED     BY 

THE  SALEM  PRESS  COMPANY 

SALEM,  MASS. 

1910 


Every  Public  Library  in  the  State  of  Minnesota — 
High  School  and  College  Libraries  included — is  en 
titled  to  a  copy  of  this  book  free  of  charge,  except 
postage;  and  can  obtain  the  same  of  the  Secretary 
of  the  Minnesota  Historical  Society,  St.  Paul,  Minn. 

H.  L.  G. 


This  book  can  be  had  from  the  Secretary  of  the 
Minnesota  Historical  Society,  St.  Paul,  Minn.  Price 
$1.50. 


Copyright,  1910 
By  Hanford  Lennox  Gordon 


CONTENTS 

A  fter  the  Battle  of  Gettysburg 310 

A  Message  to  Surviving  Comrades 321 

A  Million  More 300 

An  Old  English  Oak 180 

Battle  Cry 293 

Betzko 208 

Beyond 177 

Buttercup 230 

Byron  and  the  Angel 226 

Change 182 

Charge  of  Fremont's  Body-Guard 312 

Charge  of  "The  Black-Horse" 294 

Charity 225 

Chickadee 185 

Christmas  Eve . 228 

Columbus 231 

Cunnel  Teddy  in  Africa 369 

Daniel 274 

Do  They  Think  of  Us?       299 

Dust  to  Dust 218 

Fame        186 

Fido 222 

Gettysburg:  Charge  of  the  First  Minnesota 305 

Grierson's  Raid 304 

Heloise 224 

Hope 245 

How  We  Licked  the  Pi-utes 366 

Hurrah  for  the  Volunteers 294 

Irrigation 359 

Isabel 286 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Captain  Coates .     .     .     .  220 

Love  Will  Find 292 

Mauley 283 

Men 191 

Minnetonka       189 

Mother  England 233 

Mrs.  McNair  325 


204782 


iv  CONTENTS 

My  "Baby"  Dog .     .    .    .    . 240 

My  Dead .  .     .    . 244 

My  Father-Land 246 

My  Heart's  on  the  Rhine 248 

New  Year's  Address,  1866 .  316 

Night  Thoughts 257 

O  Let  Me  Dream  the  Dreams  of  Long  Ago    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  251 

Only  a  Private  Killed 296 

On  Reading  President  Lincoln's  Letter .  301 

One  Hundred  Years  Ago 235 

Out  of  the  Depths 255 

Pat  and  the  "Flyer" .     . 376 

Pat  and  the  Pig 342 

Pauline 103 

Poetry 259 

Politics 354 

Sailor-Boy 265 

Spring 268 

The  Devil  and  the  Monk 336 

The  Donnybrook  Fair 346 

The  Draft 341 

The  Dying  Veteran        301 

The  Feast  of  the  Virgins .    .  5 

The  Legend  of  the  Falls \ 75 

The  Minstrel 249 

The  Mississippi 1 

The  Old  Flag 308 

The  Pioneer -.;;....  278 

The  Reign  of   Reason «    .     .     .     I     .  270 

The  Sea-Gull 80 

The  Tariff  on  Tin 343 

Teddy 361 

Thanksgiving  .........     * 266 

ToMollie 286 

To  Sylvia 287 

Twenty  Years  Ago 288 

Under  the  Somber  Pine ^    .......  244 

War  with  Japan 348 

Wesselenyi        212 

Winona  43 


PREFACE. 

This  edition  contains  all  of  my  poems  that  I  care  to  preserve. 

At  odd  hours  during  an  active  and  busy  life  I  have  dallied  with 
the  Muses.  I  found  in  them,  in  earlier  years,  rest  from  toil  and 
drudgery  and,  later,  some  relief  from  physical  suffering. 

I  am  aware  that  this  volume  contains  several  poems  that  a  certain 
class  of  critics  would  condemn,  but  they  are  my  "chicks"  and  I  will 
not  disown  them. 

"  None  but  an  author  knows  an  author's  cares, 
Or  Fancy's  fondness  for  the  child  she  bears." — Cowper. 

Much  of  my  life  has  been  spent  in  the  Northwest — on  the  frontier 
of  civilization,  and  I  became  personally  acquainted  with  some  of  the 
chiefs  and  braves  of  the  Dakota  and  Ojibway  (Chippewa)  Indians. 
I  have  written  of  them  in  a  measure  from  my  own  personal  knowledge, 
and  endeavored,  above  all  things,  to  be  accurate,  and  to  present 
them  true  to  the  life. 

For  several  years  I  devoted  my  leisure  hours  to  the  study  of  the 
language,  history,  traditions,  customs  and  superstitions  of  the  Dakotas. 
These  Indians  are  commonly  called  the  "Sioux" — a  name  given 
them  by  the  early  French  traders  and  voyageurs.  "Dakota"  signi 
fies  alliance  or  confederation.  Many  separate  bands,  all  having  a 
common  origin  and  speaking  a  common  tongue,  were  united  under 
this  name.  See  "Tah-Koo  Wah-Kan,"  or  ''The  Gospel  Among  the 
Dakotas,"  by  Stephen  R.  Riggs,  pp.  1  to  6  inc. 


vi  PREFACE 

They  were  but  yesterday  the  occupants  and  owners  of  the  fair 
forests  and  fertile  prairies  of  Minnesota — a  brave,  hospitable  and 
generous  people — barbarians,  indeed,  but  noble  in  their  barbarism. 
They  have  been  fitly  called  the  Iroquois  of  the  West.  (Note  84.) 
In  form  and  features,  in  language  and  traditions,  they  are  distinct 
from  other  Indian  tribes.  When  first  visited  by  white  men,  and 
for  many  years  afterwards,  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  (by  them  called 
the  Ha- Ha)  was  the  centre  of  their  country.  They  cultivated  corn 
and  tobacco,  and  hunted  the  elk,  the  beaver  and  the  bison.  They 
were  open-hearted,  truthful  and  brave.  In  their  wars  with  other 
tribes  they  never  slew  women  or  children,  and  rarely  sacrificed  the 
lives  of  their  prisoners,  even  under  lex  talionis. 

For  many  years  their  chiefs  and  head  men  successfully  resisted  the 
attempts  to  introduce  spirituous  liquors  among  them.  More  than  a 
century  ago  an  English  trader  was  killed  at  Mendota,  near  the  pres 
ent  cities  of  St.  Paul  and  Minneapolis,  because  he  persisted,  after  re 
peated  warnings  by  the  chiefs,  in  dealing  out  mini  wakan  (Devil- 
water)  to  the  Dakota  braves. 

With  open  arms  and  generous  hospitality  they  welcomed  the  first 
white  men  to  their  land,  and  were  ever  faithful  in  their  friendship 
till  years  of  wrong  and  robbery,  and  want  and  insult,  drove  them 
to  desperation  and  to  war.  They  were  barbarians,  and  their  war 
fare  was  barbarous,  but  not  more  barbarous  than  the  warfare  of  our 
Saxon,  Celtic  and  Norman  ancestors.  They  were  ignorant  and  super 
stitious.  Their  condition  closely  resembled  the  condition  of  our  British 
forefathers  at  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era.  Macaulay  says  of 
Britain:  "Her  inhabitants,  when  first  they  became  known  to  the 
Tyrian  mariners,  were  little  superior  to  the  natives  of  the  Sandwich 
Islands."  And  again:  "While  the  German  princes  who  reigned  at 


PREFACE  vii 

Paris,  Toledo,  Aries  and  Ravenna  listened  with  reverence  to  the 
instructions  of  bishops,  adored  the  relics  of  martyrs,  and  took  part 
eagerly  in  disputes  touching  the  Nicene  theology,  the  rulers  of  Wessex 
and  Mercia  were  still  performing  savage  rites  in  the  temples  of  Thor 
and  Woden." 

The  days  of  the  Dakotas  are  done.  The  degenerate  remnants  of 
that  once  powerful  and  warlike  people  still  linger  around  the  forts 
and  agencies  of  the  Northwest,  or  chase  the  caribou  and  the  moose 
on  the  banks  of  the  Athabasca,  but  the  Dakotas  of  old  are  no  more. 
The  brilliant  defeat  of  Custer,  by  Sitting  Bull  and  his  braves,  was 
their  last  grand  rally  against  the  resistless  march  of  the  sons  of  the 
Saxons.  The  plow-shares  of  a  superior  race  are  fast  leveling  the 
sacred  mounds  of  their  dead.  But  yesterday,  the  shores  of  our  lakes 
and  our  rivers  were  dotted  with  their  teepees,  their  light  canoes  glided 
over  our  waters,  and  their  hunters  chased  the  deer  and  the  buffalo 
on  the  sites  of  our  cities.  To-day  they  are  not.  Let  us  do  justice  to 
their  memory,  for  there  was  much  that  is  noble  in  their  natures. 

In  the  Dakota  Legends,  I  have  endeavored  to  faithfully  present 
many  of  the  customs  and  superstitions,  and  some  of  the  traditions, 
of  that  people.  I  have  taken  very  little  'poetic  license'  with  their 
traditions;  none,  whatever,  with  their  customs  and  superstitions. 
In  my  studies  for  these  Legends  I  was  greatly  aided  by  the  Rev.  S.  R. 
Riggs,  author  of  the  "  Grammar  and  Dictionary  of  the  Dakota  Lan 
guage,"  "  Tah-Koo  Wah-Kan,"  etc.,  and  for  many  years  a  missionary 
among  the  Dakotas.  He  patiently  answered  my  numerous  inquiries 
and  gave  me  valuable  information.  I  am  also  indebted  to  the  late 
Gen.  H.  H.  Sibley,  one  of  the  earliest  American  traders  among  them, 
and  to  Rev.  S.  W.  Pond,  of  Shakopee,  one  of  the  first  Protestant 
missionaries  to  this  people,  himself  the  author  of  poetical  ver- 


viii  PREFACE 

sions  of  some  of  their  principal  legends,  and  last,  but  not  least,  to 
Rev.  E.  D.  Neill,  whose  admirable  "  History  of  Minnesota"  so  fully 
and  faithfully  presents  so  much  of  the  history,  traditions,  customs, 
manners  and  superstitions  of  the  Dakotas. 

I  have  not  written  for  profit  nor  published  for  fame.  Fame  is  a 
coy  goddess  that  rarely  bestows  her  favors  on  him  who  seeks  her — 
a  phantom  that  many  pursue  and  but  few  overtake. 

She  delights  to  hover  for  a  time,  like  a  ghost,  over  the  graves  of 
dead  men  who  know  not  and  care  not:  to  the  living  she  is  a  veritable 
Ignis  Fatuus.  But  every  man  owes  something  to  his  fellow  men. 

Jf  my  friends  find  half  the  pleasure  in  reading  these  poems  that 
I  found  in  writing  them,  I  shall  have  paid  my  debt  and  achieved 
success. 

HANFORD  LENNOX  GORDON. 
Los  Angeles,  Cal.,  December  30,  1909. 


OF   THE 

DIVERSITY 
*S*g 


THE  MISSISSIPPI 

PRELUDE 

To  the  Indian  Legends 

The  numerals  refer  to  Notes  in  appendix. 

Onward  rolls  the  Royal  River,  proudly  sweeping  to  the  sea, 
Dark  and  deep  and  grand,  forever  wrapt  in  myth  and  mystery. 
Now  he  laughs  along  the  highlands,  leaping  o'er  the  granite  walls; 
Now  he  sleeps  among  the  islands,  where  the  loon  her  lover  calls. 
Still  like  some  huge  monster  winding  downward  through  the  prairied 

plains, 

Seeking  rest  but  never  finding,  till  the  tropic  gulf  he  gains. 
In  his  mighty  arms  he  claspeth  now  an  empire  broad  and  grand; 
In  his  left  hand  lo  he  graspeth  leagues  of  fen  and  forest  land ; 
In  his  right,  the  mighty  mountains,  hoary  with  eternal  snow, 
Where  a  thousand  foaming  fountains  singing  seek  the  plains  below. 
Fields  of  corn  and  feet  of  cities  now  the  mighty  river  laves, 
Where  the  Saxon  sings  his  ditties  o'er  the  Indian  warriors'  graves. 

Aye,  before  the  birth  of  Moses — ere  the  Pyramids  were  piled — 
On  his  banks  grew  reeds  and  roses  from  the  sea  to  nor'lands  wild, 
And  from  forest,  fen  and  meadows,  in  the  deserts  of  the  north, 
Elk  and  bison  stalked  like  shadows,  and  the  tawny  tribe  came  forth. 
Deeds  of  death  and  deeds  of  daring  on  his  leafy  banks  were  done, 
Women  loved  and  men  went  warring,  ere  the  siege  of  Troy  begun. 
Where  his  foaming  waters  thundered,  roaring  o'er  the  rocky  walls, 
Tawny  hunters  sat  and  wondered,  listening  to  the  spirits'  calls. 
"Ha-ha!"7*  cried  the  warrior  greeting  from  afar  the  cataract's  roar; 

1 


2  THE  MISSISSIPPI 

"Ha-ha!"  rolled  the  answer  beating  down  the  rock-ribbed  leagues  of 

shore. 

Now,  alas,  the  bow  and  quiver  and  the  tawny  braves  have  fled, 
And  the  sullen,  shackled  river  drives  the  droning  mills  instead. 

Where  the  war-whoop  rose,  and  after  women  wailed  their  warriors 

slain, 

List  the  Saxon's  merry  laughter,  and  his  humming  hives  of  gain. 
Swiftly  sped  the  tawny  runner  o'er  the  pathless  prairies  then, 
Now  the  iron-reindeer  sooner  carries  weal  or  woe  to  men. 
On  thy  bosom,  Royal  River,  silent  sped  the  birch  canoe 
Bearing  brave  with  bow  and  quiver  on  his  way  to  war  or  woo; 
Now  with  flaunting  flags  and  streamers — mighty  monsters  of  the  deep — 
Lo  the  puffing,  panting  steamers  through  thy  foaming  waters  sweep: 
And  behold  the  grain-fields  golden,  where  the  bison  grazed  of  eld; 
See  the  fanes  of  forests  olden  by  the  ruthless  Saxon  felled ; 
Plumed  pines  that  spread  their  shadows  ere  Columbus  spread  his  sails, 
Firs  that  fringed  the  mossy  meadows  ere  the  Mayflower  braved  the 

gales, 

Iron  oaks  that  nourished  bruin  while  the  Vikings  roamed  the  main 
Crashing  fall  in  broken  ruin  for  the  greedy  marts  of  gain. 

Still  forever  and  forever  rolls  the  restless  river  on, 
Slumbering  oft  but  ceasing  never  while  the  circling  centuries  run. 
In  his  palm  the  lakelet  lingers,  in  his  hair  the  brooklets  hide, 
Grasped  within  his  thousand  fingers  lies  a  continent  fair  and  wide — 
Yea,  a  mighty  empire  swarming  with  its  millions  like  the  bees, 
Delving,  drudging,  striving,  storming,  all  their  lives,  for  golden  ease. 

Still,  methinks,  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  days  that  are  no  more, 
Stalk  around  the  lakes  and  meadows,  haunting  oft  the  wonted  shore: 
Hunters  from  the  land  of  spirits  seek  the  bison  and  the  deer 
Where  the  Saxon  now  inherits  golden  field  and  silver  mere ; 


THE  MISSISSIPPI  3 

And  beside  the  mound  where  buried  lies  the  dark-eyed  maid  he  loves , 
Some  tall  warrior,  wan  and  wearied,  in  the  misty  moonlight  moves. 
See — he  stands  erect  and  lingers — stoic  still,  but  loth  to  go — 
Clutching  in  his  tawny  fingers  feathered  shaft  and  polished  bow. 
Never  wail  or  moan  he  utters  and  no  tear  is  on  his  face, 
But  a  warrior's  curse  he  mutters  on  the  crafty  Saxon  race. 

0  thou  dark,  mysterious  River,  speak  and  tell  thy  tales  to  me; 
Seal  not  up  thy  lips  forever — veiled  in  mist  and  mystery. 

1  will  sit  and  lowly  listen  at  the  phantom-haunted  falls 
Where  thy  waters  foam  and  glisten  o'er  the  rugged,  rocky  walls, 
Till  some  spirit  of  the  olden,  mystic,  weird,  romantic  days 

Shall  emerge  and  pour  her  golden  tales  and  legends  through  my  lays. 
Then  again  the  elk  and  bison  on  thy  grassy  banks  shall  feed, 
And  along  the  low  horizon  shall  the  plumed  hunter  speed; 
Then  again  on  lake  and  river  shall  the  silent  birch  canoe 
Bear  the  brave  with  bow  and  quiver  on  his  way  to  war  or  woo: 
Then  the  beaver  on  the  meadow  shall  rebuild  his  broken  wall, 
And  the  gaunt  wolf  chase  his  shadow,  and  his  mate  the  panther  call. 
From  the  prairies  and  the  regions  where  the  pine-plumed  forest  grows 
Shall  arise  the  tawny  legions  with  their  lances  and  their  bows; 
And  again  the  cries  of  battle  shall  resound  along  the  plain, 
Bows  shall  twang  and  quivers  rattle,  women  wail  their  warriors  slain; 
And  by  lodge-fire  lowly  burning  shall  the  mother  from  afar 
List  her  warrior's  steps  returning  from  the  daring  deeds  of  war. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VIRGINS1 

A    LEGEND    OF    THE    DAKOTAS 

In  pronouncing  Dakota  words  give  "  a  "  the  sound  of  "  ah  "  —  "  e "  the  sound  of  "  »"  —  " i " 
the  sound  of  "  e  "  and  "  u  "  the  sound  of  "oo ; "  sound  "  ee  "  as  in  English.  The  numerals  refer  to 
Note*  in  appendix. 


THE    GAME    OF    BALL1 

Clear  was  the  sky  as  a  silver  shield; 
The  bright  sun  blazed  on  the  frozen  field: 
On  ice-bound  river  and  white-robed  prairie 
The  diamonds  gleamed  in  the  flame  ofjnoon; 
But  cold  and  keen  were  the  breezes  airy 
Wa-zi-ya*  blew  from  his  icy  throne. 

On  the  solid  ice  of  the  silent  river 
The  bounds  are  marked,  and  a  splendid  prize, 
A  robe  of  black-fox  lined  with  beaver, 
Is  hung  in  view  of  the  eager  eyes; 
And  fifty  merry  Dakota  maidens, 
The  fairest-molded  of  womankind, 
Are  gathered  in  groups  on  the  level  ice. 
They  look  on  the  robe  and  its  beauty  gladdens 
And  maddens  their  hearts  for  the  splendidjprize. 
Lo  the  rounded  ankles  and  raven  hair 
That  floats  at  will  on  the  wanton  wind, 
And  the  round,  brown  arms  to  the  breezes  bare, 

5 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

And  breasts  like  the  mounds  where  the  waters  meet,4 
And  feet  as  fleet  as  the  red  deer's  feet, 
And  faces  that  glow  like  the  full,  round  moon 
When  she  laughs  in  the  luminous  skies  of  June. 

The  leaders  are  chosen  and  swiftly  divide 
The  opposing  parties  on  either  side. 
Wiwaste5  is  chief  of  a  nimble  band, 
The  star-eyed  daughter  of  Little  Crow;* 
And  the  leader  chosen  to  hold  command 
Of  the  band  adverse  is  a  haughty  foe — 
The  dusky,  impetuous  Harpstina,7 
The  queenly  cousin  of  Wapasa.8 

Kapoza's  chief  and  his  tawny  hunters 
Are  gathered  to  witness  the  queenly  game. 
The  ball  is  thrown  and  a  net  encounters, 
And  away  it  flies  with  a  loud  acclaim. 
Swift  are  the  maidens  that  follow  after, 
And  swiftly  it  flies  for  the  farther  bound; 
And  long  and  loud  are  the  peals  of  laughter, 
As  some  fair  runner  is  flung  to  ground ; 
While  backward  and  forward,  and  to  and  fro 
The  maidens  contend  on  the  trampled  snow. 
With  loud  "Ihd!—Ito!—Ihd!"Q 
And  waving  the  beautiful  prize  anon, 
The  dusky  warriors  cheer  them  on. 
And  often  the  limits  are  almost  passed, 
As  the  swift  ball  flies  and  returns.     At  last 
It  leaps  the  line  at  a  single  bound 
From  the  fair  Wi waste's  sturdy  arm 
Like  a  fawn  that  flies  from  the  baying  hound. 
The  wild  cheers  broke  like  a  thunder-storm 
On  the  beetling  bluffs  and  the  hills  profound, 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

•  •*• 

An  echoing,  jubilant  sea  of  sound. 
Wakawa,  the  chief,  and  the  loud  acclaim 
Announced  the  end  of  the  hard-won  game, 
And  the  fair  Wi waste  was  victor  crowned. 

Dark  was  the  visage  of  Harpstin& 

When  the  robe  was  laid  at  her  rival's  feet, 

And  merry  maidens  and  warriors  saw 

Her  flashing  eyes  and  her  look  of  hate, 

As  she  turned  to  Wakawa,  the  chief,  and  said : 

"The  game  was  mine  were  it  fairly  played. 

I  was  stunned  by  a  blow  on  my  bended  head, 

As  I  snatched  the  ball  from  the  slippery  ground 

Not  half  a  fling  from  Wiwaste's  bound. 

The  cheat — behold  her!    for  there  she  stands 

With  the  prize  that  is  mine  in  her  treacherous  hands. 

The  fawn  may  fly,  but  the  wolf  is  fleet; 

The  fox  creeps  sly  on  Magd's10  retreat, 

And  a  woman's  revenge — it  is  swift  and  sweet." 

She  turned  to  her  lodge,  but  a  roar  of  laughter 
And  merry  mockery  followed  after. 
Little  they  heeded  the  words  she  said, 
Little  they  cared  for  her  haughty  tread, 
For  maidens  and  warriors  and  chieftain  knew 
That  her  lips  were  false  and  her  charge  untrue. 

Wiwaste,  the  fairest  Dakota  maiden, 
The  sweet-faced  daughter  of  Little  Crow, 
To  her  teepee11  turned  with  her  trophy  laden, 
The  black  robe  trailing  the  virgin  snow. 
Beloved  was  she  by  her  princely  father, 
Beloved  was  she  by  the  young  and  old, 
By  merry  maidens  and  many  a  mother, 
And  many  a  warrior  bronzed  and  bold. 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

For  her  face  was  as  fair  as  a  beautiful  dream, 
And  her  voice  like  the  song  of  the  mountain  stream; 
And  her  eyes  like  the  stars  when  they  glow  and  gleam 
Through  the  somber  pines  of  the  nor'land  wold, 
When  the  winds  of  winter  are  keen  and  cold. 


Mah-pf-ya  Dti-ta,"  the  tall  Red  Cloud, 

A  hunter  swift  and  a  warrior  proud, 

With  many  a  scar  and  many  a  feather, 

Was  a  suitor  bold  and  a  lover  fond. 

Long  had  he  courted  Wiwaste's  father, 

Long  had  he  sued  for  the  maiden's  hand. 

Aye,  brave  and  proud  was  the  tall  Red  Cloud, 

A  peerless  son  of  a  giant  race, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  panther  were  set  in  his  face: 

He  strode  like  a  stag,  and  he  stood  like  a  pine; 

Ten  feathers  he  wore  of  the  great  Wanmde6;1* 

With  crimsoned  quills  of  the  porcupine 

His  leggins  were  worked  to  his  brawny  knee. 

The  bow  he  bent  was  a  giant's  bow; 

The  swift  red  elk  could  he  overtake, 

And  the  necklace  that  girdled  his  brawny  neck 

Was  the  polished  claws  of  the  great  Mato14 

He  grappled  and  slew  in  the  northern  snow. 

Wiwaste  looked  on  the  warrior  tall; 

She  saw  he  was  brawny  and  brave  and  great, 

But  the  eyes  of  the  panther  she  could  but  hate, 

And  a  brave  H6h&*  loved  she  better  than  all. 

Loved  was  Mahpiya  by  Harpstina, 

But  the  warrior  she  never  could  charm  or  draw; 

And  bitter  indeed  was  her  secret  hate 

For  the  maiden  she  reckoned  so  fortunate. 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

HEYOKA"  WACIPEE 

THE  GIANT'S  DANCE 

The  night-sun17  sails  in  his  gold  canoe, 

The  spirits  walk  in  the  realms  of  air 

With  their  glowing  faces  and  flaming  hair,18 

And  the  shrill,  chill  winds  o'er  the  prairies  blow. 

In  the  Tee19  of  the  Council  the  Virgins  light 

The  Virgin-fire20  for  the  feast  to-night; 

For  the  Sons  of  Heydka  will  celebrate 

The  sacred  dance  to  the  giant  great. 

The  kettle  boils  on  the  blazing  fire, 

And  the  flesh  is  done  to  the  chief's  desire. 

With  his  stoic  face  to  the  sacred  East,21 

He  takes  his  seat  at  the  Giant's  Feast. 

For  the  feast  of  Heydka  the  braves  are  dressed22 

With  crowns  from  the  bark  of  the  white-birch  trees, 

And  new  skin  leggins  that  reach  the  knees; 

With  robes  of  the  bison  and  swarthy  bear, 

And  eagle-plumes  in  their  coal-black  hair, 

And  marvelous  rings  in  their  tawny  ears 

That  were  pierced  with  the  points  of  their  shining  spears. 

To  honor  Heydka  Wakawa  lifts 

His  fuming  pipe  from  the  Red-stone  Quarry.28 

The  warriors  follow.     The  white  cloud  drifts 

From  the  Council-lodge  to  the  welkin  starry, 

Like  a  fog  at  morn  on  the  pine-clad  hill, 

When  the  meadows  are  damp  and  the  winds  are  still. 

They  dance  to  the  tune  of  their  wild  "  Hd-hd" 
A  warrior's  shout  and  a  raven's  caw — 
Circling  the  pot  and  the  blazing  fire 
To  the  tom-tom's  bray  and  the  rude  bassoon; 


10  THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Round  and  round  to  their  heart's  desire, 
And  ever  the  same  wild  chant  and  tune — 
A  warrior's  shout  and  a  raven's  caw — 
"  Hd-hd,—hd-hd—hd-hd,—hd!" 
They  crouch,  they  leap,  and  their  burning  eyes 
Flash  fierce  in  the  light  of  the  flaming  fire, 
As  fiercer  and  fiercer  and  higher  and  higher 
The  rude,  wild  notes  of  their  chant  arise. 
They  cease,  they  sit,  and  the  curling  smoke 
Ascends  again  from  their  polished  pipes, 
And  upward  curls  from  their  swarthy  lips 
To  the  god  whose  favor  their  hearts  invoke. 

Then  tall  Wakawa  arose  and  said : 

"Brave  warriors,  listen,  and  give  due  heed. 

Great  is  Hey  oka,  the  magical  god; 

He  can  walk  on  the  air;   he  can  float  on  the  flood. 

He's  a  worker  of  magic  and  wonderful  wise; 

He  cries  when  he  laughs  and  he  laughs  when  he  cries; 

He  sweats  when  he's  cold,  and  he  shivers  when  hot, 

And  the  water  is  cold  in  his  boiling  pot. 

He  hides  in  the  earth  and  he  walks  in  disguise, 

But  he  loves  the  brave  and  their  sacrifice. 

We  are  sons  of  Hey  oka.     The  Giant  commands 

In  the  boiling  water  to  thrust  our  hands; 

And  the  warrior  that  scorneth  the  foe  and  fire 

Heydka  will  crown  with  his  heart's  desire." 

They  thrust  their  hands  in  the  boiling  pot; 

They  swallow  the  bison-meat  steaming  hot; 

Not  a  wince  on  their  stoical  faces  bold, 

For  the  meat  and  the  water,  they  say,  are  cold: 

And  great  is  Heydka  and  wonderful  wise; 

He  floats  on  the  flood  and  he  walks  on  the  skies, 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  U 

And  ever  appears  in  a  strange  disguise ; 
But  he  loves  the  brave  and  their  sacrifice; 
And  the  warrior  that  scorneth  the  foe  and  fire 
Hey6ka  will  crown  with  his  heart's  desire. 


Proud  was  the  chief  of  his  warriors  proud, 
The  sinewy  sons  of  the  Giant's  race; 
But  the  bravest  of  all  was  the  tall  Red  Cloud; 
The  eyes  of  the  panther  were  set  in  his  face;  ; 
He  strode  like  a  stag  and  he  stood  like  a  pine ; 
Ten  feathers  he  wore  of  the  great  Wanmdee;™ 
With  crimsoned  quills  of  the  porcupine 
His  leggins  were  worked  to  his  brawny  knee. 
Blood-red  were  the  stripes  on  his  swarthy  cheek 
And  the  necklace  that  girdled  his  brawny  neck 
Was  the  polished  claws  of  the  great  Matou 
He  grappled  and  slew  in  the  northern  snow. 
Proud  Red  Cloud  turned  to  the  braves  and  said, 
As  he  shook  the  plumes  on  his  haughty  head: 
"Ho!   the  warrior  that  scorneth  the  foe  and  fire 
Heyoka  will  crown  with  his  heart's  desire!" 
He  snatched  from  the  embers  a  red-hot  brand, 
And  held  it  aloft  in  his  naked  hand. 
He  stood  like  a  statue  in  bronze  or  stone — 
Not  a  muscle  moved,  and  the  braves  looked  on. 
He  turned  to  the  chieftain — "  I  scorn  the  fire— 
Ten  feathers  I  wear  of  the  great  Wanmdee; 
Then  grant  me,  Wakawa,  my  heart's  desire; 
Let  the  sunlight  shine  in  my  lonely  tee.^ 
I  laugh  at  red  death  and  I  laugh  at  red  fire ; 
Brave  Red  Cloud  is  only  afraid  of  fear; 
But  Wiwaste  is  fair  to  his  heart  and  dear; 
Then  grant  him,  Wakawa,  his  heart's  desire." 
The  warriors  applauded  with  loud  "Ho!  Ho!"u 


12  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

And  he  flung  the  brand  to  the  drifting  snow. 
Three  times  Wakawa  puffed  forth  the  smoke 
From  his  silent  lips;   then  he  slowly  spoke: 
11  Mahpfya  is  strong  as  the  stout-armed  oak 
That  stand  on  the  bluff  by  the  windy  plain, 
And  laughs  at  the  roar  of  the  hurricane. 
He  has  slain  the  foe  and  the  great  Mat6 
With  his  hissing  arrow  and  deadly  stroke. 
My  heart  is  swift  but  my  tongue  is  slow: 
Let  the  warrior  come  to  my  lodge  and  smoke; 
He  may  bring  the  gifts;25  but  the  timid  doe 
May  fly  from  the  hunter  and  say  him  "no." 

Wiwaste  sat  late  in  the  lodge  alone, 
Her  dark  eyes  bent  on  the  glowing  fire: 
She  heard  not  the  wild  winds  shrill  and  moan; 
She  heard  not  the  tall  elms  toss  and  groan; 
Her  face  was  lit  like  the  harvest  moon; 
For  her  thoughts  flew  far  to  her  heart's  desire. 
Far  away  in  the  land  of  the  Ho  he1*  dwelt 
The  warrior  she  held  in  her  secret  heart; 
But  little  he  dreamed  of  the  pain  she  felt, 
For  she  hid  her  love  with  a  maiden's  art. 
Not  a  tear  she  shed,  not  a  word  she  said, 
When  the  brave  young  chief  from  the  lodge  departed; 
But  she  sat  on  the  mound  when  the  day  was  dead, 
And  gazed  at  the  full  moon  mellow-hearted. 
Fair  was  the  chief  as  the  morning-star; 
His  eyes  were  mild  and  his  words  were  low, 
But  his  heart  was  stouter  than  lance  or  bow; 
And  her  young  heart  flew  to  her  love  afar 
;,,  O'er  his  trail  long  covered  with  drifted  snow. 

She  heard  a  warrior's  stealthy  tread, 
And  the  tall  Wakawa  appeared,  and  said: 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  13 

"  Is  Wiwaste  afraid  of  the  spirit  dread 

That  fires  the  sky  in  the  fatal  north?"28 

Behold  the  mysterious  lights.     Come  forth: 

Some  evil  threatens,  some  danger  nears, 

For  the  skies  are  pierced  by  the  burning  spears." 

The  warriors  rally  beneath  the  moon; 

They  shoot  their  shafts  at  the  evil  spirit. 

The  spirit  is  slain  and  the  flame  is  gone, 

But  his  blood  lies  red  on  the  snow-fields  near  it; 

And  again  from  the  dead  will  the  spirit  rise, 

And  flash  his  spears  in  the  northern  skies. 

Then  the  chief  and  the  queenly  Wiwaste  stood 

Alone  in  the  moon-lit  solitude, 

And  she  was  silent  and  he  was  grave. 

"And  fears  not  my  daughter  the  evil  spirit? 

The  strongest  warriors  and  bravest  fear  it. 

The  burning  spears  are  an  evil  omen ; 

They  threaten  the  wrath  of  a  wicked  woman, 

Or  a  treacherous  foe;    but  my  warriors  brave, 

When  danger  nears,  or  the  foe  appears, 

Are  a  cloud  of  arrows — a  grove  of  spears." 

"My  Father,"  she  said,  and  her  words  were  low, 
"Why  should  I  fear?   for  I  soon  will  go 
To  the  broad,  blue  lodge  in  the  Spirit-land, 
Where  my  fond-eyed  mother  went  long  ago, 
And  my  dear  twin-sisters  walk  hand  in  hand. 
My  Father,  listen — my  words  are  true," 
And  sad  was  her  voice  as  the  whippowil 
When  she  mourns  her  mate  by  the  moon-lit  rill, 
"Wiw£st&  lingers  alone  with  you; 
The  rest  are  sleeping  on  yonder  hill — 


14  THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Save  one — and  he  an  undutiful  son — 

And  you,  my  Father,  will  sit  alone 

When  Sisoka27  sings  and  the  snow  is  gone. 

I  sat,  when  the  maple  leaves  were  red, 

By  the  foaming  falls  of  the  haunted  river; 

The  night-sun70  was  walking  above  my  head, 

And  the  arrows  shone  in  his  burnished  quiver; 

And  the  winds  were  hushed  and  the  hour  was  dread 

With  the  walking  ghosts  of  the  silent  dead. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Water-Fairy;28 

I  saw  her  form  in  the  moon-lit  mist, 

As  she  sat  on  a  stone  with  her  burden  weary, 

By  the  whirling  eddies  of  amethyst. 

And  robed  in  her  mantle  of  mist  the  sprite 

Her  low  wail  poured  on  the  silent  night. 

Then  the  spirit  spake,  and  the  floods  were  still 

They  hushed  and  listened  to  what  she  said, 

And  hushed  was  the  plaint  of  the  whippowil 

In  the  silver  birches  above  her  head: 

'  Wiwaste,  the  prairies  are  green  and  fair 

When  the  robin  sings  and  the  whippowil; 

But  the  land  of  the  Spirits  is  fairer  still, 

For  the  winds  of  winter  blow  never  there ; 

And  forever  the  songs  of  the  whippowils 

And  the  robins  are  heard  on  the  leafy  hills. 

Thy  mother  looks  from  her  lodge  above — 

Her  fair  face  shines  in  the  sky  afar, 

And  the  eyes  of  thy  sisters  are  bright  with  love, 

As  they  peep  from  the  tee  of  the  mother-star. 

To  her  happy  lodge  in  the  Spirit  land 

She  beckons  Wiwaste  with  shining  hand.' 

"My  Father — my  Father,  her  words  are  true; 
And  the  death  of  Wiwaste  will  rest  on  you. 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VIRGINS  15 

You  have  pledged  me  as  wife  to  the  tall  Red  Cloud; 
You  will  take  the  gifts  of  the  warrior  proud; 
But  I,  Wakawa, — I  answer — never! 
I  will  stain  your  knife  in  my  heart's  red  blood, 
I  will  plunge  and  sink  in  the  sullen  river 
Ere  I  will  be  wife  to  the  dark  Red  Cloud ! 
Wakawa — my  father,  my  words  are  few; 
Wakawa — my  father,  my  words  are  true." 

"Wiwaste,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low, 
"Let  it  be  as  you  will,  for  Wakawa's  tongue 
Has  spoken  no  promise; — his  lips  are  slow, 
And  the  love  of  a  father  is  deep  and  strong. 
Be  happy,  Micunksee;29  the  flames  are  gone  — 
They  flash  no  more  in  the  northern  sky. 
See  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  watching  moon; 
No  more  will  the  fatal,  red  arrows  fly; 
For  the  singing  shafts  of  my  warriors  sped 
To  the  bad  spirit's  bosom  and  laid  him  dead, 
And  his  blood  on  the  snow  of  the  North  lies  red. 
Go — sleep  in  the  robe  that  you  won  to-day, 
And  dream  of  your  hunter — the  brave  Chaske." 

Light  was  her  heart  as  she  turned  away; 

It  sang  like  the  lark  in  the  skies  of  May. 

The  round  moon  laughed,  but  a  lone,  red  star,3* 

As  she  turned  to  the  teepee  and  entered  in, 

Fell  flashing  and  swift  in  the  sky  afar, 

Like  the  polished  point  of  a  javelin. 

Nor  chief  nor  daughter  the  shadow  saw 

Of  the  crouching  listener,  Harpstin&. 

Wiwaste,  wrapped  in  her  robe  and  sleep, 
Heard  not  the  storm-sprites  wail  and  weep, 
As  they  rode  on  the  winds  in  the  frosty  air; 


16  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

But  she  heard  the  voice  of  her  hunter  fair; 

For  a  fairy  spirit  with  silent  fingers 

The  curtains  drew  from  the  land  of  dreams; 

And  lo  in  her  teepee  her  lover  lingers; 

In  his  tender  eyes  all  the  love-light  beams, 

And  his  voice  is  the  music  of  mountain  streams. 

And  then  with  her  round,  brown  arms  she  pressed 

His  phantom  form  to  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  whispered  the  name,  in  her  happy  sleep, 

Of  her  Hoht  hunter  so  fair  and  far : 

And  then  she  saw  in  her  dreams  the  deep 

Where  the  spirit  wailed,  and  a  falling  star; 

Then  stealthily  crouching  under  the  trees, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  the  Kan-6-ti-dan?1 

The  little,  wizened,  mysterious  man, 

With  his  long  locks  tossed  by  the  moaning  breeze. 

Then  a  flap  of  wings,  like  a  thunder-bird," 

And  a  wailing  spirit  the  sleeper  heard; 

And  lo,  through  the  mists  of  the  moon,  she  saw 

The  hateful  visage  of  Harpstina. 

But  waking  she  murmured — "And  what  are  these — 

The  flap  of  wings  and  the  falling  star, 

The  wailing  spirit  that's  never  at  ease, 

The  little  man  crouching  under  the  trees, 

And  the  hateful  visage  of  Harpstina? 

My  dreams  are  like  feathers  that  float  on  the  breeze, 

And  none  can  tell  what  the  omens  are — 

Save  the  beautiful  dream  of  my  love  afar 

In  the  happy  land  of  the  tall  Hoht — 

My  handsome  hunter — my  brave  Chaske." 

"Ta-tdnka!     Ta-tdnka!"*3  the  hunters  cried, 
With  a  joyous  shout  at  the  break  of  dawn 
And  darkly  lined  on  the  white  hill-side, 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  17 

A  herd  of  bison  went  marching  on 

Through  the  drifted  snow  like  a  caravan. 

Swift  to  their  ponies  the  hunters  sped, 

And  dashed  away  on  the  hurried  chase. 

The  wild  steeds  scented  the  game  ahead, 

And  sprang  like  hounds  to  the  eager  race. 

But  the  brawny  bulls  in  the  swarthy  van 

Turned  their  polished  horns  on  the  charging  foes, 

And  reckless  rider  and  fleet  footman 

Were  held  at  bay  in  the  drifted  snows, 

While  the  frantic  herd  o'er  the  hilltops  ran, 

Like  the  frightened  beasts  of  a  caravan 

On  Sahara's  sands  when  the  simoon  blows. 

Sharp  were  the  twangs  of  the  hunters'  bows, 

And  swift  and  humming  the  arrows  sped, 

Till  ten  huge  bulls  on  the  bloody  snows 

Lay  pierced  with  arrows  and  dumb  and  dead. 

But  the  chief  with  the  flankers  had  gained  the  rear, 

And  flew  on  the  trail  of  the  flying  herd. 

The  shouts  of  the  riders  rang  loud  and  clear, 

As  their  foaming  steeds  to  the  chase  they  spurred. 

And  now  like  the  roar  of  an  avalanche 

Rolls  the  bellowing  wrath  of  the  maddened  bulls; 

They  charge  on  the  riders  and  runners  stanch, 

And  a  dying  steed  in  the  snow-drift  rolls, 

While  the  rider,  flung  to  the  frozen  ground, 

Escapes  the  horns  by  a  panther's  bound. 

But  the  raging  monsters  are  held  at  bay, 

While  the  flankers  dash  on  the  swarthy  rout: 

With  lance  and  arrow  they  slay  and  slay; 

And  the  welkin  rings  to  the  gladsome  shout — 

To  the  loud  Ind's  and  the  wild  Ihd's,34 

And  dark  and  dead,  on  the  bloody  snows, 

Lie  the  swarthy  heaps  of  the  buffaloes. 


18  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

All  snug  in  the  teepee  Wiwaste  lay, 

All  wrapped  in  her  robe,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

All  snug  and  warm  from  the  wind  and  snow, 

While  the  hunters  followed  the  buffalo. 

Her  dreams  and  her  slumber  their  wild  shouts  broke; 

The  chase  was  afoot  when  the  maid  awoke; 

She  heard  the  twangs  of  the  hunters'  bows, 

And  the  bellowing  bulls  and  the  loud  Ihos, 

And  she  murmured — "My  hunter  is  far  away 

In  the  happy  land  of  the  tall  Hdhe — 

My  handsome  hunter,  my  brave  Chask6; 

But  the  robins  will  come  and  my  warrior  too, 

And  Wiwaste  will  find  her  a  way  to  woo." 

And  long  she  lay  in  a  reverie, 
And  dreamed,  half-awake,  of  the  brave  Chaske, 
Till  a  trampling  of  feet  on  the  crispy  snow 
She  heard,  and  the  murmur  of  voices  low,— 
Then  the  warriors'  greeting — I  ho!  I  ho! 
And  behold,  in  the  blaze  of  the  risen  day, 
With  the  hunters  that  followed  the  buffalo- 
Came  her  tall,  young  hunter — her  brave  Chaske. 
Far  south  has  he  followed  the  bison-trail 
With  his  band  of  warriors  so  brave  and  true. 
Right  glad  is  Wakawa  his  friend  to  hail, 
And  Wiwaste  will  find  her  a  way  to  woo. 

Tall  and  straight  as  the  larch-tree  stood 
The  manly  form  of  the  brave  young  chief, 
And  fair  as  the  larch  in  its  vernal  leaf, 
When  the  red  fawn  bleats  in  the  feathering  wood. 
Mild  was  his  face  as  the  morning  skies, 
And  friendship  shone  in  his  laughing  eyes; 
But  swift  were  his  feet  o'er  the  drifted  snow 
On  the  trail  of  the  elk  or  the  buffalo, 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  19 

And  his  heart  was  stouter  than  lance  or  bow, 
When  he  heard  the  whoop  of  his  enemies. 
Five  feathers  he  wore  of  the  great  Wanmdee, 
And  each  for  the  scalp  of  a  warrior  slain, 
When  down  on  his  camp  from  the  northern  plain, 
With  their  murder-cries  rode  the  bloody  Cree^ 
But  never  the  stain  of  an  infant  slain, 
Or  the  blood  of  a  mother  that  plead  in  vain, 
Soiled  the  honored  plumes  of  the  brave  Chaske. 
A  mountain  bear  to  his  enemies, 
To  his  friends  like  the  red  fawn's  dappled  form; 
In  peace,  like  the  breeze  from  the  summer  seas — 
In  war,  like  the  roar  of  the  mountain  storm. 
His  fame  in  the  voice  of  the  winds  went  forth 
From  his  hunting  grounds  in  the  happy  North, 
And  far  as  the  shores  of  the  Great  Mede3* 
The  nations  spoke  of  the  brave  Chaske. 

Dark  was  the  visage  of  grim  Red  Cloud, 
Fierce  were  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  proud, 
When  the  chief  to  his  lodge  led  the  brave  Hdht, 
And  Wiwaste  smiled  on  the  tall  Chaske. 
Away  he  strode  with  a  sullen  frown, 
And  alone  in  his  teepee  he  sat  him  down. 
From  the  gladsome  greeting  of  braves  he  stole, 
And  wrapped  himself  in  his  gloomy  soul. 
But  the  eagle  eyes  of  the  Harpstina 
The  clouded  face  of  the  warrior  saw. 
Softly  she  spoke  to  the  sullen  brave: 
"Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  my  words  are  few; 
Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  my  words  are  true. 
The  brave  Mah-pi-ya — his  face  is  sad; 
And  why  is  the  warrior  so  glum  and  grave? 
For  the  fair  Wiwaste  is  gay  and  glad; 


20  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

She  will  sit  in  the  teepee  the  live-long  day, 

And  laugh  with  her  lover — the  tall  Chaske. 

Does  the  brave  Red  Cloud  for  the  false  one  sigh  ? 

There  are  fairer  maidens  than  she,  and  proud 

Were  their  hearts  to  be  loved  by  the  brave  Red  Cloud. 

Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  my  words  are  few; 

Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  my  words  are  true. 

Trust  not  the  chief  with  the  smiling  eyes; 

His  tongue  is  swift,  but  his  words  are  lies; 

And  the  proud  Mah-pi-ya  will  surely  find 

That  Wakawa's  promise  is  hollow  wind. 

Last  night  I  stood  by  his  lodge,  and  so 
I  heard  the  voice  of  the  Little  Crow; 
But  the  fox  is  sly  and  his  words  were  low. 
But  I  heard  her  answer  her  father — 'Never! 
I  will  stain  your  knife  in  my  heart's  red  blood, 
I  will  plunge  and  sink  in  the  sullen  river, 
Ere  I  will  be  wife  to  the  dark  Red  Cloud!' 
Then  he  spoke  again,  and  his  voice  was  low, 
But  I  heard  the  answer  of  Little  Crow: 
'Let  it  be  as  you  will,  for  Wakawa's  tongue 
Has  spoken  no  promise — his  lips  are  slow, 
And  the  love  of  a  father  is  deep  and  strong.' 

44  Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  they  scorn  your  love. 

But  the  false  chief  covets  the  warrior's  gifts. 

False  to  his  promise  the  fox  will  prove, 

And  fickle  as  snow  in  Wo-kd-da-we£*7 

That  slips  into  brooks  when  the  storm-cloud  lifts, 

And  the  red  sun  looks  through  the  ragged  rifts. 

Mah-pi-ya  Duta  will  listen  to  me. 

There  are  fairer  birds  in  the  bush  than  she, 

And  the  fairest  would  gladly  be  Red  Cloud's  wife. 

Will  the  warrior  sit  like  a  girl  bereft, 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  21 

When' fairer  and  truer  than  she  are  left, 
That  love  Red  Cloud  as  they  love  their  life? 
Mah-pi-ya  Duta  will  listen  to  me. 
I  love  him  well — I  have  loved  him  long: 
A  woman  is  weak,  but  a  warrior  is  strong, 
And  a  love-lorn  brave  is  a  scorn  to  see. 

"Mah-pi-ya  Duta  will  listen  to  me! 
Revenge  is  swift  and  revenge  is  strong. 
And  sweet  as  the  hive  in  the  hollow  tree: 
The  proud  Red  Cloud  may  avenge  his  wrong. 
Let  the  brave  be  patient;    it  is  not  long 
Till  the  leaves  be  green  on  the  maple  tree, 
And  the  Feast  of  the  Virgins  is  then  to  be — 
The  Feast  of  the  Virgins  is  then  to  be!" 

Proudly  she  turned  from  the  silent  brave, 
And  went  her  way;   but  the  warrior's  eyes — 
They  flashed  with  the  flame  of  a  sudden  fire, 
Like  the  lights  that  gleam  in  the  Sacred  Cave,18 
When  the  black  night  covers  the  autumn  skies. 
And  the  stars  from  their  welkin  watch  retire. 

Three  nights  he  tarried — the  brave  Chaske; 
Winged  were  the  hours  and  they  flitted  away; 
On  the  wings  of  Wakdndee39  they  silently  flew, 
For  Wiwaste  had  found  her  a  way  to  woo. 
Ah  little  he  cared  for  the  bison-chase, 
For  the  red  lilies  bloomed  on  the  fair  maid's  face; 
Ah  little  he  cared  for  the  winds  that  blew, 
For  Wiwaste  had  found  her  a  way  to  woo. 
Brown-bosomed  she  sat  on  her  fox- robe  dark, 
Her  ear  to  the  tales  of  the  brave  inclined, 
Or  tripped  from  the  tee  like  the  song  of  a  lark, 
And  gathered  her  hair  from  the  wanton  wind. 


22  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Ah  little  he  thought  of  the  leagues  of  snow 

He  trod  on  the  trail  of  the  buffalo; 

And  little  he  recked  of  the  hurricanes 

That  swept  the  snow  from  the  frozen  plains 

And  piled  the  banks  of  the  Bloody  River.40 

His  bow  unstrung  and  forgotten  hung 

With  his  beaver  hood  and  his  otter  quiver; 

He  sat  spell-bound  by  the  artless  grace 

Of  her  star-lit  eyes  and  her  moon-lit  face. 

Ah  little  he  cared  for  the  storms  that  blew, 

For  Wiwaste  had  found  her  a  way  to  woo. 

When  he  spoke  with  Wakawa  her  sidelong  eyes 

Sought  the  handsome  chief  in  his  hunter-guise. 

Wakawa  marked,  and  the  lilies  fair 

On  her  round  cheeks  spread  to  her  raven  hair. 

They  feasted  on  rib  of  the  bison  fat, 

On  the  tongue  of  the  Ta41  that  the  hunters  prize, 

On  the  savory  flesh  of  the  red  Hogdn,4* 

On  sweet  tipsdnna43  and  pemmican 

And  the  dun-brown  cakes  of  the  golden  maize; 

And  hour  after  hour  the  young  chief  sat, 

And  feasted  his  soul  on  her  love-lit  eyes. 

The  sweeter  the  moments  the  swifter  they  fly ; 
Love  takes  no  account  of  the  fleeting  hours; 
He  walks  in  a  dream  'mid  the  blooming  of  flowers, 
And  never  awakes  till  the  blossoms  die. 
Ah  lovers  are  lovers  the  wide  world  over — 
In  the  hunter's  lodge  and  the  royal  palace. 
Sweet  are  the  lips  of  his  love  to  the  lover — 
Sweet  as  new  wine  in  a  golden  chalice 
From  the  Tajo's44  slopes  or  the  hills  beyond; 
And  blindly  he  sips  from  his  loved  one's  lips, 
In  lodge  or  palace  the  wide  world  over, 
The  maddening  honey  of  Trebizond.45 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  23 

O  what  are  leagues  to  the  loving  hunter, 

Or  the  blinding  drift  of  the  hurricane, 

When  it  raves  and  roars  o'er  the  frozen  plain! 

He  would  face  the  storm — he  would  death  encounter 

The  darling  prize  of  his  heart  to  gain. 

But  his  hunters  chafed  at  the  long  delay, 

For  the  swarthy  bison  were  far  away, 

And  the  brave  young  chief  from  the  lodge  departed. 

He  promised  to  come  with  the  robins  in  May 

With  the  bridal  gifts  for  the  bridal  day; 

And  the  fair  Wiwaste  was  happy-hearted, 

For  Wakawa  promised  the  brave  Chaske. 

Birds  of  a  feather  will  flock  together. 

The  robin  sings  to  his  ruddy  mate, 

And  the  chattering  jays,  in  the  winter  weather, 

To  prate  and  gossip  will  congregate; 

And  the  cawing  crows  on  the  autumn  heather, 

Like  evil  omens,  will  flock  together, 

In  common  council  for  high  debate; 

And  the  lass  will  slip  from  a  doting  mother 

To  hang  with  her  lad  on  the  garden  gate. 

Birds  of  a  feather  will  flock  together — 

'Tis  an  adage  old — it  is  nature's  law, 

And  sure  as  the  pole  will  the  needle  draw. 

The  fierce  Red  Cloud  with  the  flaunting  feather, 

Will  follow  the  finger  of  Harpstina. 

The  winter  wanes  and  the  south- wind  blows 

From  the  Summer  Islands  legendary; 

The  sktskas™  fly  and  the  melted  snows 

In  lakelets  lie  on  the  dimpled  prairie. 

The  frost-flowers47  peep  from  their  winter  sleep 

Under  the  snow-drifts  cold  and  deep. 

To  the  April  sun  and  the  April  showers, 

In  field  and  forest,  the  baby  flowers 


24  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Lift  their  blushing  faces  and  dewy  eyes; 
And  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  winter-fairies, 
Soon  bud  and  blossom  the  emerald  prairies, 
Like  the  fabled  Garden  of  Paradise. 

The  plum-trees,  white  with  their  bloom  in  May, 
Their  sweet  perfume  on  the  vernal  breeze 
Wide  strew  like  the  isles  of  the  tropic  seas 
Where  the  paroquet  chatters  the  livelong  day. 
But  the  May-days  pass  and  the  brave  Chaske — • 
O  why  does  the  lover  so  long  delay? 
Wiwaste  waits  in  the  lonely  tee: 
Has  her  fair  face  fled  from  his  memory? 
For  the  robin  cherups  his  mate  to  please, 
The  blue-bird  pipes  in  the  poplar-trees, 
The  meadow  lark  warbles  his  jubilees, 
Shrilling  his  song  in  the  azure  seas 
Till  the  welkin  throbs  to  his  melodies, 
And  low  is  the  hum  of  the  humble-bees, 
And  the  Feast  of  the  Virgins  is  now  to  be. 

THE   FEAST  OF    THE   VIRGINS 

The  sun  sails  high  in  his  azure  realms; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  the  breezy  elms 

The  feast  is  spread  by  the  murmuring  river. 

With  his  battle-spear  and  his  bow  and  quiver, 

And  eagle-plumes  in  his  ebon  hair, 

The  chief  Wakawa  himself  is  there; 

And  round  the  feast,  in  the  Sacred  Ring,48 

Sit  his  weaponed  warriors  witnessing. 

Not  a  morsel  of  food  have  the  Virgins  tasted 

For  three  long  days  ere  the  holy  feast ; 

They  sat  in  their  teepee  alone  and  fasted, 

Their  faces  turned  to  the  Sacred  East.21 

In  the  polished  bowls  lies  the  golden  maize, 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  25 

And  the-*flesh  of  fawn  on  the  polished  trays. 

For  the  Virgins  the  bloom  of  the  prairies  wide — 

The  blushing  pink  and  the  meek  blue-bell, 

The  purple  plumes  of  the  prairie's  pride,49 

The  wild,  uncultured  asphodel, 

And  the  beautiful,  blue-eyed  violet 

That  the  Virgins  call  "Let-me-not-forget," 

In  gay  festoons  and  garlands  twine 

With  the  cedar  sprigs50  and  the  wild  wood  vine. 

So  gaily  the  Virgins  are  decked  and  dressed, 

And  none  but  a  virgin  may  enter  there; 

And  clad  is  each  in  a  scarlet  vest, 

And  a  fawn-skin  frock  to  the  brown  calves  bare. 

Wild  rose-buds  peep  from  their  flowing  hair, 

And  a  rose  half  blown  on  the  budding  breast; 

And  bright  with  the  quills  of  the  porcupine 

The  moccasined  feet  of  the  maidens  shine. 

Hand  in  hand  round  the  feast  they  dance, 
And  sing  to  the  notes  of  a  rude  bassoon, 
And  never  a  pause  or  a  dissonance 
In  the  merry  dance  or  the  merry  tune. 
Brown-bosomed  and  fair  as  the  rising  moon, 
When  she  peeps  o'er  the  hills  of  the  dewy  east, 
Wiwaste  sings  at  the  Virgins'  Feast; 
And  bright  is  the  light  in  her  luminous  eyes; 
They  glow  like  the  stars  in  the  winter  skies ; 
And  the  lilies  that  bloom  in  her  virgin  heart 
Their  golden  blush  to  her  cheeks  impart — 
Her  cheeks  half-hid  in  her  midnight  hair. 
Fair  is  her  form — as  the  red  fawn's  fair — 
And  long  is  the  flow  of  her  raven  hair; 
It  falls  to  her  knees  and  it  streams  on  the  breeze 
Like  the  path  of  a  storm  on  the  swelling  seas. 


26  THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Proud  of  their  rites  are  the  Virgins  fair, 
For  none  but  a  virgin  may  enter  there. 
Tis  a  custom  old  and  a  sacred  thing; 
Nor  rank  nor  beauty  the  warriors  spare, 
If  a  tarnished  maiden  should  enter  there. 
And  her  that  enters  the  Sacred  Ring 
With  a  blot  that  is  known  or  a  secret  stain 
The  warrior  who  knows  is  bound  to  expose, 
And  lead  her  forth  from  the  ring  again. 
And  the  word  of  a  brave  is  the  fiat  of  law; 
For  the  Virgins'  Feast  is  a  sacred  thing. 
Aside  with  the  mothers  sat  Harpstina; 
She  durst  not  enter  the  Virgins'  ring. 

Round  and  round  to  the  merry  song 

The  maidens  dance  in  their  gay  attire, 

While  the  loud  Ho-Ho's  of  the  tawny  throng 

Their  flying  feet  and  their  song  inspire. 

They  have  finished  the  song  and  the  sacred  dance, 

And  hand  in  hand  to  the  feast  advance — 

To  the  polished  bowls  of  the  golden  maize, 

And  the  sweet  fawn-meat  in  the  polished  trays. 

Then  up  from  his  seat  in  the  silent  crowd 
Rose  the  frowning,  fierce-eyed,  tall  Red  Cloud; 
Swift  was  his  stride  as  the  panther's  spring, 
When  he  leaps  on  the  fawn  from  his  cavern  lair; 
Wiwaste  he  caught  by  her  flowing  hair, 
And  dragged  her  forth  from  the  Sacred  Ring. 
She  turned  on  the  warrior,  her  eyes  flashed  fire; 
Her  proud  lips  quivered  with  queenly  ire; 
And  her  sun-browned  cheeks  were  aflame  with  red. 
Her  hand  to  the  spirits  she  raised  and  said: 
"I  am  pure! — I  am  pure  as  the  falling  snow! 
Great  Tdku-skdn-skdn51  will  testify! 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  2T 

• 
And  dares  the  tall  coward  to  say  me  no?" 

But  the  sullen  warrior  made  no  reply. 

She  turned  to  the  chief  with  her  frantic  cries: 

"Wakawa, — my  Father!   he  lies, — he  lies! 

Wiwastk  is  pure  as  the  fawn  unborn; 

Lead  me  back  to  the  feast  or  Wiwastk  dies!" 

But  the  warriors  uttered  a  cry  of  scorn, 

And  he  turned  his  face  from  her  pleading  eyes. 

Then  the  sullen  warrior,  the  tall  Red  Cloud, 

Looked  up  and  spoke  and  his  voice  was  loud; 

But  he  held  his  wrath  and  he  spoke  with  care : 

"Mah-pi-ya  Dtita,  his  words  are  few; 

Mah-pi-ya  Duta,  his  words  are  true: 

Wiwaste  is  young;   she  is  proud  and  fair, 

But  she  may  not  boast  of  the  virgin  snows. 

The  Virgins'  Feast  is  a  sacred  thing; 

How  dares  she  enter  the  Virgins'  ring? 

The  warrior  would  fain,  but  he  dares  not  spare; 

She  is  tarnished  and  only  the  Red  Cloud  knows." 

She  clutched  her  hair  in  her  clinched  hand ; 

She  stood  like  a  statue  bronzed  and  grand; 

Wakdn-dee39  flashed  in  her  fiery  eyes; 

Then  swift  as  the  meteor  cleaves  the  skies — 

Nay,  swift  as  the  fiery  IV 'akinyari 's32  dart, 

She  snatched  the  knife  from  the  warrior's  belt, 

And  plunged  it  clean  to  the  polished  hilt — 

With  a  deadly  cry — in  the  villain's  heart. 

Staggering  he  clutched  the  air  and  fell; 

His  life-blood  smoked  on  the  trampled  sand, 

And  dripped  from  the  knife  in  the  virgin's  hand. 

Then  rose  his  kinsmen's  savage  yell. 


28  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Swift  as  the  doe's  Wiwaste's  feet 

Fled  away  to  the  forest.     The  hunters  fleet 

In  vain  pursue,  and  in  vain  they  prowl 

And  lurk  in  the  forest  till  dawn  of  day. 

They  hear  the  hoot  of  the  mottled  owl; 

They  hear  the  were- wolf's"  winding  howl; 

But  the  swift  Wiwaste  is  far  away. 

They  found  no  trace  in  the  forest  land; 

They  found  no  trail  in  the  dew-damp  grass; 

They  found  no  track  in  the  river  sand, 

Where  they  thought  Wiwaste  would  surely  pass. 

The  braves  returned  to  the  troubled  chief; 

In  his  lodge  he  sat  in  his  silent  grief. 

"Surely,"  they  said,  "she  has  turned  a  spirit. 

No  trail  she  left  with  her  flying  feet; 

No  foot-prints  lead  to  her  far  retreat. 

She  flew  in  the  air,  and  her  wail — we  could  hear  it, 

As  she  upward  rose  to  the  shining  stars; 

And  we  heard  on  the  river,  as  we  stood  near  it, 

The  falling  drops  of  Wiwaste's  tears." 

WTakawa  thought  of  his  daughter's  words 

Ere  the  south- wind  came  and  the  piping  birds — 

"My  Father,  listen — my  words  are  true," 

And  sad  was  her  voice  as  the  whippowil 

When  she  mourns  her  mate  by  the  moon-lit  rill, 

"Wiwaste  lingers  alone  with  you; 

The  rest  are  sleeping  on  yonder  hill — 

Save  one — and  he  an  undutiful  son — 

And  you,  my  Father,  will  sit  alone 

When  Sisoka™  sings  and  the  snow  is  gone." 

His  broad  breast  heaved  on  his  troubled  soul, 

The  shadow  of  grief  o'er  his  visage  stole 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  29 

Like  a  cloud  on  the  face  of  the  setting  sun. 

"She  has  followed  the  years  that  are  gone,"  he  said; 

"The  spirits  the  words  of  the  witch  fulfill; 

For  I  saw  the  ghost  of  my  father  dead, 

By  the  moon's  dim  light  on  the  misty  hill. 

He  shook  the  plumes  on  his  withered  head, 

And  the  wind  through  his  pale  form  whistled  shrill. 

And  a  low,  sad  voice  on  the  hill  I  heard, 

Like  the  mournful  wail  of  a  widowed  bird." 

Then  lo,  as  he  looked  from  his  lodge  afar, 

He  saw  the  glow  of  the  Evening-star; 

"And  yonder,"  he  said,  "is  Wiwaste's  face; 

She  looks  from  her  lodge  on  our  fading  race 

Devoured  by  famine,  and  fraud,  and  war, 

And  chased  and  hounded  by  fate  and  woe, 

As  the  white  wolves  follow  the  buffalo;" 

And  he  named  the  planet  the  Virgin  Star.5' 

"Wakawa,"  he  muttered,  "the  guilt  is  thine! 
She  was  pure — she  was  pure  as  the  fawn  unborn. 

0  why  did  I  hark  to  the  cry  of  scorn, 
Or  the  words  of  the  lying  libertine? 
Wakawa,  Wakawa,  the  guilt  is  thine! 
Thejsprings  will  return  with  the  voice  of  birds, 
But  the  voice  of  my  daughter  will  come  no  more. 
She  wakened  the  woods  with  her  musical  words, 
And  the  sky-lark,  ashamed  of  his  voice,  forbore. 
She  called  back  the  years  that  are  gone,  and  long 

1  heard  their  voice  in  her  happy  song. 
O  why  did  the  chief  of  the  tall  H6h£ 
His  feet  from  Kapoza?  so  long  delay? 
For  his  father  sat  at  my  father's  feast, 
And  he  at  Wakawa's — an  honored  guest. 
He  is  dead! — he  is  slain  on  the  Bloody  Plain, 


30  THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

By  the  hand  of  the  treacherous  Chippeway; 

And  the  face  shall  I  never  behold  again 

Of  my  brave  young  brother — the  chief  Chaske. 

Death  walks  like  a  shadow  among  my  kin ; 

And  swift  are  the  feet  of  the  flying  years 

That  cover  Wakawa  with  frost  and  tears, 

And  leave  their  tracks  on  his  wrinkled  skin. 

Wakawa,  the  voice  of  the  years  that  are  gone 

Will  follow  thy  feet  like  the  shadow  of  death, 

Till  the  trails  of  the  forest  and  desert  lone 

Shall  forget  thy  footsteps.     O  living  breath, 

Whence  are  thou,  and  whither  so  soon  to  fly? 

And  whence  are  the  years?     Shall  I  overtake 

Their  flying  feet  in  the  star-lit  sky? 

From  his  last  long  sleep  will  the  warrior  wake? 

Will  the  morning  break  in  Wakawa's  tomb, 

As  it  breaks  and  glows  in  the  eastern  skies? 

Is  it  true? — will  the  spirits  of  kinsmen  come 

And  bid  the  bones  of  the  brave  arise? 

Wakawa,  Wakawa,  for  thee  the  years 

Are  red  with  blood  and  bitter  with  tears. 

Gone — brothers,  and  daughters,  and  wife — all  gone 

That  are  kin  to  Wakawa — but  one — but  one — 

Wakinyan  Tanka — undutiful  son! 

And  he  estranged  from  his  father's  tee, 

Will  never  return  till  the  chief  shall  die. 

And  what  cares  he  for  his  father's  grief? 

He  will  smile  at  my  death — it  will  make  him  chief. 

Woe  burns  in  my  bosom.     Ho,  warriors — Ho! 

Raise  the  song  of  red  war;    for  your  chief  must  go 

To  drown  his  grief  in  the  blood  of  the  foe! 

I  shall  fall.     Raise  my  mound  on  the  sacred  hill: 

Let  my  warriors  the  wish  of  their  chief  fulfill; 

For  my  fathers  sleep  in  the  sacred  ground. 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  31 

The  Autumn  blasts  o'er  Wakawa's  mound 

Will  chase  the  hair  of  the  thistle's  head, 

And  the  bare-armed  oak  o'er  the  silent  dead, 

When  the  whirling  snows  from  the  north  descend, 

Will  wail  and  moan  in  the  midnight  wind. 

In  the  famine  of  winter  the  wolf  will  prowl, 

And  scratch  the  snow  from  the  heap  of  stones, 

And  sit  in  the  gathering  storm  and  howl, 

On  the  frozen  mound,  for  Wakawa's  bones. 

But  the  years  that  are  gone  shall  return  again, 

As  the  robin  returns  and  the  whippowil, 

When  my  warriors  stand  on  the  sacred  hill 

And  remember  the  deeds  of  their  brave  chief  slain." 


Beneath  the  glow  of  the  Virgin  Star 
They  raised  the  song  of  the  red  war-dance. 
At  the  break  of  dawn  with  the  bow  and  lance 
They  followed  the  chief  on  the  path  of  war. 
To  the  north — to  the  forests  of  spruce  and  pine — 
Led  their  stealthy  steps  on  the  winding  trail, 
Till  they  saw  the  Lake  of  the  Spirit55  shine 
Through  somber  pines  of  the  dusky  dale. 
Then  they  heard  the  hoot  of  the  mottled  owl  ;M 
They  heard  the  gray  wolf's  dismal  howl: 
Then  shrill  and  sudden  the  war-whoop  rose 
From  an  hundred  throats  of  their  swarthy  foes 
In  ambush  crouched  in  the  tangled  wood. 
Death  shrieked  in  the  twang  of  their  deadly  bows, 
And  their  hissing  arrows  drank  brave  men's  blood. 
From  rock,  and  thicket,  and  brush,  and  brakes, 
Gleamed  the  burning  eyes  of  the  "forest-snakes."57 
From  brake,  and  thicket,  and  brush,  and  stone, 
The  bow-string  hummed  and  the  arrow  hissed, 
And  the  lance  of  a  crouching  Ojibwa  shone, 


OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


32  THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Or"the  scalp-knife  gleamed  in  a  swarthy  fist. 
Undaunted  the  braves  of  Wakawa's  band 
Leaped  into  the  thicket  with  lance  and  knife, 
And  grappled  the  Chippeways  hand  to  hand; 
And  foe  with  foe,  in  the  deadly  strife, 
Lay  clutching  the  scalp  of  his  foe  and  dead, 
With  a  tomahawk  sunk  in  his  ghastly  head, 
Or  his  cleft  heart  sheathing  a  bloody  blade. 
Like  a  bear  in  the  battle  Wakawa  raves, 
And  cheers  the  hearts  of  his  falling  braves: 
But  a  panther  crouches  along  his  track — 
He  springs  with  a  yell  on  Wakawa's  back! 
The  tall  chief,  stabbed  to  the  heart,  lies  low; 
But  his  left  hand  clutches  his  deadly  foe, 
And  his  red  right  clinches  the  bloody  hilt 
Of  his  knife  in  the  heart  of  the  slayer  dyed. 
And  thus  was  the  life  of  Wakawa  spilt, 
And  slain  and  slayer  lay  side  by  side. 
The  unscalped  corpse  of  their  honored  chief 
His  warriors  snatched  from  the  yelling  pack, 
And  homeward  fled  on  their  forest  track 
With  their  bloody  burden  and  load  of  grief. 

The  spirits  the  words  of  the  brave  fulfill — 
Wakawa  sleeps  on  the  sacred  hill, 
And  Wakinyan  Tdnka,  his  son,  is  chief. 
Ah  soon  shall  the  lips  of  men  forget 
Wakdwa's  name,  and  the  mound  of  stone 
Will  speak  of  the  dead  to  the  winds  alone, 
And  the  winds  will  whistle  their  mock  regret. 

The  speckled  cones  of  the  scarlet  berries58 
Lie  red  and  ripe  in  the  prairie  grass. 
The  Si-yo™  clucks  on  the  emerald  prairies 
To  her  infant  brood.     From  the  wild  morass, 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  33 

On  the  sapphire  lakelet  set  within  it, 
Magd™  sails  forth  with  her  wee  ones  daily. 
They  ride  on  the  dimpling  waters  gaily, 
Like  a  fleet  of  yachts  and  a  man-of-war. 
The  piping  plover,  the  light-winged  linnet, 
And  the  swallow  sail  in  the  sunset  skies. 
The  whippowil  from  her  cover  hies, 
And  trills  her  song  on  the  amber  air. 
Anon  to  her  loitering  mate  she  cries: 
"Flip,  O  Will!— trip,  O  Will!— skip,  O  Will!" 
And  her  merry  mate  from  afar  replies : 
"Flip  I  will— skip  I  will— trip  I  will;" 
And  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  he  flies. 
And  bright  from  her  lodge  in  the  skies  afar 
Peeps  the  glowing  face  of  the  Virgin  Star. 
The  fox-pups60  creep  from  their  mother's  lair, 
And  leap  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon; 
And  loud  on  the  luminous,  moonlit  lake 
Shrill  the  bugle-notes  of  the  lover  loon ; 
And  woods  and  waters  and  welkin  break 
Into  jubilant  song — it  is  joyful  June. 

But  where  is  Wiwaste?     O  where  is  she — 
The  virgin  avenged — the  queenly  queen — 
The  womanly  woman — the  heroine? 
Has  she  gone  to  the  spirits  ?     and  can  it  be 
That  her  beautiful  face  is  the  Virgin  Star 
Peeping  out  from  the  door  of  her  lodge  afar, 
Or  upward  sailing  the  silver  sea, 
Star-beaconed  and  lit  like  an  avenue, 
In  the  shining  stern  of  her  gold  canoe? 
No  tidings  came — nor  the  brave  Chaske: 
O  why  did  the  lover  so  long  delay? 
He  promised  to  come  with  the  robins  in  May 


34  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

With  the  bridal  gifts  for  the  bridal  day ; 

But  the  mid-May  mornings  have  slipped  away, 

And  where  is  the  lover — the  brave  Chaske? 


But  what  of  the  venomous  Harpstina — 

The  serpent  that  tempted  the  proud  Red  Cloud, 

And  kindled  revenge  in  his  savage  soul? 

He  paid  for  his  crime  with  his  own  heart's  blood, 

But  his  angry  spirit  has  brought  her  dole;01 

It  has  entered  her  breast  and  her  burning  head, 

And  she  raves  and  moans  on  her  fevered  bed. 

"He  is  dead!     He  is  dead!"  is  her  wailing  cry, 

"And  the  blame  is  mine — it  was  I — it  was  I! 

I  hated  Wiwaste,  for  she  was  fair, 

And  my  brave  was  caught  in  her  net  of  hair. 

I  turned  his  love  to  a  bitter  hate; 

I  nourished  revenge,  and  I  pricked  his  pride; 

Till  the  Feast  of  the  Virgins  I  bade  him  wait. 

He  had  his  revenge,  but  he  died — he  died! 

And  the  blame  is  mine — it  was  I — it  was  I ! 

And  his  spirit  burns  me;   I  die — I  die!" 

Thus,  alone  in  her  lodge  and  her  agonies, 

She  wails  to  the  winds  of  the  night  and  dies. 

But  where  is  Wiwaste?     Her  swift  feet  flew 
To  the  somber  shades  of  the  tangled  thicket. 
She  hid  in  the  copse  like  a  wary  cricket, 
And  the  fleetest  hunters  in  vain  pursue. 
Seeing  unseen  from  her  hiding-place, 
She  hears  their  feet  on  the  hurried  chase; 
She  sees  their  dark  eyes  glance  and  dart, 
As  they  pass  and  peer  for  a  track  or  trace, 
And  she  trembles  with  fear  in  the  copse  apart, 
Lest  her  nest  be  betrayed  by  her  throbbing  heart. 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  35 

Weary  the  hours ;  but  the  sun  at  last 

Went  down  to  his  lodge  in  the  west,  and  fast 

The  wings  of  the  spirits  of  night  were  spread 

O'er  the  darkling  woods  and  Wiwaste's  head. 

Then  slyly  she  slipped  from  her  snug  retreat, 

And  guiding  her  course  by  Waziya's  star,62 

That  shone  through  the  shadowy  forms  afar, 

She  northward  hurried  with  silent  feet; 

And  long  ere  the  sky  was  aflame  in  the  east, 

She  was  leagues  from  the  ring  of  the  fatal  feast. 

'Twas  the  hoot  of  the  owl  that  the  hunters  heard, 

And  the  scattered  drops  of  the  threat'ning  shower, 

And  the  far  wolf's  cry  to  the  moon  preferred. 

Their  ears  were  their  fancies — the  scene  was  weird, 

And  the  witches83  wail  at  the  midnight  hour. 

She  leaped  the  brook  and  she  swam  the  river; 

Her  course  through  the  forest  Wiwaste  wist 

By  the  star  that  gleamed  through  the  glimmering»:mist 

That  fell  from  the  dim  moon's  downy  quiver. 

In  her  heart  she  spoke  to  her  spirit-mother: 

"  Look  down  from  your  teepee,  O  starry  spirit. 

Ina!* — the  cry  of  Wiwaste — hear  it; 

And  touch  the  heart  of  my  cruel  father. 

He  hearkened  not  to  a  virgin's  words; 

He  listened  not  to  his  daughter's  wail. 

O  give  me  the  wings  of  the  thunder-birds, 

For  his  man- wolves52  follow  Wiwaste's  trail; 

And  guide  my  flight  to  the  far  Hdhd — 

To  the  sheltering  lodge  of  my  brave  Chaske. 

Ina!— the  cry  of  Wiwaste— hear  it." 

The  shadows  paled  in  the  hazy  east, 

And  the  light  of  the  kindling  morn  increased. 

The  pale-faced  stars  fled  one  by  one, 

*  My  mother —  pronounced  end.'i. 


36  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

And  hid  in  the  vast  from  the  rising  sun. 
From  woods  and  waters  and  welkin  soon 
Fled  the  hovering  mists  of  the  vanished  moon. 
The  young  robins  chirped  in  their  feathery  beds, 
The  loon's  song  shrilled  like  a  winding  horn, 
And  the  green  hills  lifted  their  dewy  heads 
To  greet  the  god  of  the  rising  morn. 

She  reached  the  rim  of  the  rolling  prairie — 

The  boundless  ocean  of  solitude; 

She  hid  in  the  thicket  of  hazel-wood, 

For  her  heart  was  sick  and  her  feet  were  weary; 

She  fain  would  rest,  and  she  needed  food. 

Alone  by  the  billowy,  boundless  prairies, 

She  plucked  the  cones  of  the  scarlet  berries 

In  feathery  copse  and  the  flowery  field: 

She  found  the  bulbs  of  the  young  Tipsdnna,4* 

And  the  sweet  medtf*  that  the  meadows  yield. 

With  the  precious  gift  of  his  priceless  manna 

God  fed  his  fainting  and  famished  child. 

At  night  again  to  the  northward  far 

She  followed  the  torch  of  Waziya's3  star; 

For  leagues  away  o'er  the  prairies  green, 

On  the  billowy  vast,  may  a  man  be  seen, 

When  the  sun  is  high  and  the  stars  are  low; 

And  the  sable  breast  of  the  strutting  crow 

Looms  up  like  the  form  of  the  buffalo. 

The  Bloody  River40  she  reached  at  last, 

And  boldly  walked  in  the  light  of  day 

On  the  level  plain  of  the  valley  vast; 

Nor  thought  of  the  terrible  Chippeway. 

She  was  safe  from  the  wolves  of  her  father's  band, 

But  she  trode  on  the  treacherous  "Bloody  Land." 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  37 

And  lo — from  afar  o'er  the  level  plain — 

As  far  as  the  sails  of  a  ship  at  sea 

May  be  seen  as  they  lift  from  the  rolling  main — 

A  band  of  warriors  rode  rapidly. 

She  shadowed  her  eyes  with  her  sun-browned  hand; 

All  backward  streamed  on  the  wind  her  hair, 

And  terror  spread  o'er  her  visage  fair, 

As  she  bent  her  brow  to  the  far-off  band. 

For  she  thought  of  the  terrible  Chippeway — 

The  fiends  that  the  babe  and  the  mother  slay; 

And  yonder  they  came  in  their  war-array! 

She  hid  like  a  grouse  in  the  meadow-grass, 

And  moaned — "I  am  lost! — I  am  lost!   alas, 

And  why  did  I  fly  from  my  native  land 

To  die  by  the  cruel  Ojibway's  hand?" 

And  on  rode  the  braves.     She  could  hear  the  steeds 

Come  galloping  on  o'er  the  level  meads; 

And  lowly  she  crouched  in  the  waving  grass, 

And  hoped  against  hope  that  the  braves  might  pass. 

They  have  passed ;   she  is  safe — she  is  safe ! 

Ah  no !     They  have  struck  her  trail  and  the  hunters  halt 

Like  wolves  on  the  track  of  the  bleeding  doe 

That  grappled  breaks  from  the  dread  assault, 

Dash  the  warriors  wild  on  Wiwaste's  trail. 

She  flies — but  what  can  her  flight  avail? 

Her  feet  are  fleet,  but  the  flying  feet 

Of  the  steeds  of  the  prairies  are  fleeter  still; 

And  where  can  she  fly  for  a  safe  retreat? 

But  hark  to  the  shouting—  "Iho!—Ihd!34 
Rings  over  the  wide  plain  sharp  and  shrill. 
She  halts,  and  the  hunters  come  riding  on; 


THE   FEAST   OF    THE    VIRGINS 

But  the  horrible  fear  from  her  heart  is  gone, 
For  it  is  not  the  shout  of  the  dreaded  foe ; 
Tis  the  welcome  shout  of  her  native  land ! 

Up  galloped  the  chief  of  the  band,  and  lo — 

The  clutched  knife  dropped  from  her  trembling  hand; 

She  uttered  a  cry  and  she  swooned  away; 

For  there,  on  his  steed  in  the  blaze  of  day, 

On  the  boundless  prairie  so  far  away, 

With  his  polished  bow  and  his  feathers  gay, 

Sat  the  manly  form  of  her  own  Chaske ! 

There's  a  mote  in  my  eye  or  a  blot  on  the  page, 

And  I  cannot  tell  of  the  joyful  greeting; 

You  may  take  it  for  granted,  and  I  will  engage, 

There  were  kisses  and  tears  at  the  strange,  glad  meeting; 

For  aye  since  the  birth  of  the  swift-winged  years, 

In  the  desert  drear,  in  the  field  of  clover, 

In  the  cot,  in  the  palace,  and  all  the  world  over — 

Yea,  away  on  the  stars  to  the  ultimate  spheres, 

The  greeting  of  love  to  the  long-sought  lover — 

Is  tears  and  kisses  and  kisses  and  tears. 

But  why  did  the  lover  so  long  delay? 

And  whitherward  rideth  the  chief  to-day? 

As  he  followed  the  trail  of  the  buffalo, 

From  the  tees  of  Kapoza  a  maiden,  lo, 

Came  running  in  haste  o'er  the  drifted  snow. 

She  spoke  to  the  chief  of  the  tall  Hoh&: 

"Wiwaste  requests  that  the  brave  Chaske 

Will  abide  with  his  band  and  his  coming  delay 

Till  the  moon  when  the  strawberries  are  ripe  and  red, 

And  then  will  the  chief  and  Wi waste  wed — 

When  the  Feast  of  the  Virgins  is  past,"  she  said. 

Wiwaste's  wish  was  her  lover's  law; 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

And  so  his  coming  the  chief  delayed 

Till  the  mid-May  blossoms  should  bloom  and  fad< 

But  the  lying  runner  was  Harpstina. 

And  now  with  the  gifts  for  the  bridal  day 
And  his  chosen  warriors  he  took  his  way, 
And  followed  his  heart  to  his  moon-faced  maid. 
And  thus  was  the  lover  so  long  delayed; 
And  so  as  he  rode  with  his  warriors  gay, 
On  that  bright  and  beautiful  summer  day, 
His  bride  he  met  on  the  trail  mid- way. 

God  arms  the  innocent.     He  is  there — 

In  the  desert  vast,  in  the  wilderness, 

On  the  bellowing  sea,  in  the  lion's  lair, 

In  the  mist  of  battle,  and  everywhere. 

In  his  hand  he  holds  with  a  father's  care 

The  tender  hearts  of  the  motherless ; 

The  maid  and  the  mother  in  sore  distress 

He  shields  with  his  love  and  his  tenderness; 

He  comforts  the  widowed — the  comfortless — 

And  sweetens  her  chance  of  bitterness ; 

He  clothes  the  naked — the  numberless — 

His  charity  covers  their  nakedness — 

And  he  feeds  the  famished  and  fatherless 

With  the  hand  that  feedeth  the  birds  of  air. 

Let  the  myriad  tongues  of  the  earth  confess 

His  infinite  love  and  his  holiness; 

For  his  pity  pities  the  pitiless, 

His  mercy  flows  to  the  merciless' 

And  the  countless  worlds  in  the  realms  above, 

Revolve  in  the  light  of  his  boundless  love. 

And  what  of  the  lovers?     you  ask,  I  trow. 
She  told  him  all  ere  the  sun  was  low — 


40  THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS 

Why  she  fled  from  the  Feast  to  a  safe  retreat. 

She  laid  her  heart  at  her  lover's  feet, 

And  her  words  were  tears  and  her  lips  were  slow. 

As  she  sadly  related  the  bitter  tale 

His  face  was  aflame  and  anon  grew  pale, 

And  his  dark  eyes  flashed  with  a  brave  desire, 

Like  the  midnight  gleam  of  the  sacred  fire.*5 

" Mitdwin,"*9  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  low, 

"Thy  father  no  more  is  the  false  Little  Crow; 

But  the  fairest  plume  shall  Wiwaste  wear 

Of  the  great  Wanrnded  in  her  midnight  hair. 

In  my  lodge,  in  the  land  of  the  tall  Hdh£, 

The  robins  will  sing  all  the  long  summer  day 

To  the  happy  bride  of  the  brave  Chaske.'  ' 

Aye,  love  is  tested  by  stress  and  trial 

Since  the  finger  of  time  on  the  endless  dial 

Began  its  rounds,  and  the  orbs  to  move 

In  the  boundless  vast,  and  the  sunbeams  clove 

The  chaos;   but  only  by  fate's  denial 

Are  fathomed  the  fathomless  depths  of  love. 

Man  is  the  rugged  and  wrinkled  oak, 

And  woman  the  trusting  and  tender  vine 

That  clasps  and  climbs  till  its  arms  entwine 

The  brawny  arms  of  the  sturdy  stock. 

The  dimpled  babes  are  the  flowers  divine 

That  the  blessing  of  God  on  the  vine  and  oak 

With  their  cooing  and  blossoming  lips  invoke. 

To  the  pleasant  land  of  the  brave  Hdhd 

Wiwaste  rode  with  her  proud  Chaske. 

She  ruled  like  a  queen  in  his  bountiful  tee, 

And  the  life  of  the  twain  was  a  jubilee. 

Their  wee  ones  climbed  on  the  father's  knee, 

And  played  with  his  plumes  of  the  great  Wanmded. 


THE   FEAST    OF    THE    VIRGINS  41 

The  silken  threads  of  the  happy  years 
They  wove  into  beautiful  robes  of  love 
That  the  spirits  wear  in  the  lodge  above; 
And  time  from  the  reel  of  the  rolling  spheres 
His  silver  threads  with  the  raven  wove; 
But  never  the  stain  of  a  mother's  tears 
Soiled  the  shining  web  of  their  happy  years. 
When  the  wrinkled  mask  of  the  years  they  wore, 
And  the  raven  hair  of  their  youth  was  gray, 
Their  love  grew  deeper,  and  more  and  more; 
For  he  was  a  lover  for  aye  and  aye, 
And  ever  her  beautiful,  brave  Chaske. 
Through  the  wrinkled  mask  of  the  hoary  years 
To  the  loving  eyes  of  the  lover  aye 
The  blossom  of  beautiful  youth  appears. 

At  last,  when  their  locks  were  as  white  as  snow, 
Beloved  and  honored  by  all  the  band, 
They  silently  slipped  from  their  lodge  below, 
And  walked  together,  and  hand  in  hand, 
O'er  the  Shining  Path88  to  the  Spirit-land, 
Where  the  hills  and  the  meadows  for  aye  and  aye 
Are  clad  with  the  verdure  and  flowers  of  May, 
And  the  unsown  prairies  of  Paradise 
Yield  the  golden  maize  and  the  sweet  wild  rice. 
There,  ever  ripe  in  the  groves  and  prairies, 
Hang  the  purple  plums  and  the  luscious  berries, 
And  the  swarthy  herds  of  the  bison  feed 
On  the  sun-lit  slope  and  the  waving  mead; 
The  dappled  fawns  from  their  coverts  peep, 
And  countless  flocks  on  the  waters  sleep; 
And  the  silent  years  with  their  fingers  trace 
No  furrows  for  aye  on  the  hunter's  face. 


WINONA 


When  the  meadow-lark  trilled  o'er  the  leas  and  the  oriole  piped  in  the  maples, 
From  my  hammock,  all  under  the  trees,  by  the  sweet-scented  field  of  red  clover, 
I  harked  to  the  hum  of  the  bees,  as  they  gathered  the  mead  of  the  blossoms, 
And  caught  from  their  low  melodies  the  air  of  the  song  of  Winona. 

(In  pronouncing  Dakota  words  give  "a"  the  sound  of  "ah," — "e"  the  sound  of  "a,"  "i"  the 
sound  of  "e"  and  "u"  the  sound  of  "oo."  Sound  "ee"  as  in  English.  The  numerals  refer 
to  Notes  in  appendix.) 


Two  hundred  white  Winters  and  more  have  fled  from  the  face  of  the  Summer, 
Since  here  on  the  oak-shaded  shore  of  the  dark-winding,  swift  Mississippi, 
Where  his  foaming  floods  tumble  and  roar  o'er  the  falls  and  the  white-rolling 

rapids, 

In  the  fair,  fabled  center  of  Earth,  sat  the  Indian  town  of  Ka-thd-ga.s* 
Far  rolling  away  to  the  north,  and  the  south,  lay  the  emerald  prairies, 
All  dotted  with  woodlands  and  lakes,  and  above  them  the  blue  bent  of  ether. 
And  here  where  the  dark  river  breaks  into  spray  and  the  roar  of  the  Ha-  Ha,1* 
Where  gathered  the  bison-skin  tees*  of  the  chief  tawny  tribe  of  Dakotas ; 
For  here,  in  the  blast  and  the  breeze,  flew  the  flag  of  the  chief  of  Isantees,** 
Up-raised  on  the  stem  of  a  lance — the  feathery  flag  of  the  eagle. 
And  here  to  the  feast  and  the  dance,  from  the  prairies  remote  and  the  forests, 
Oft  gathered  the  out-lying  bands,  and  honored  the  gods  of  the  nation. 
On  the  islands  and  murmuring  strands  they  danced  to  the  god  of  the  waters, 
Unktehee,**  who  dwelt  in  the  caves,  deep  under  the  flood  of  the  Ha-  //a;78 
And  high  o'er  the  eddies  and  waves  hung  their  offerings  of  furs  and  tobacco. f 
And  here  to  the  Master  of  life — Anp6-tu-wee,10  god  of  the  heavens, 
Chief,  warrior,  and  maiden,  and  wife,  burned  the  sacred  green  sprigs  of  the 

cedar.50 

And  here  to  the  Searcher-of-hearts — fierce  Td-ku  Skan-skdn*1  the  avenger, 
Who  dwells  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  the  blue,  starry  ether, 
Ever  watching,  with  all-seeing  eyes,  the  deeds  of  the  wives  and  the  warriors, 

*  Tee — teepee,  the  Dakota  name  for  tent  or  wigwam. 

t  See  Hennepin's  Description  of  Louisiana,  by  Shea,  pp.  243  and  256.     Parkman's  Discovery,  p. 
246  —  and  Carver's  Travels,  p.  67. 

43 


44  WIN  ON  A 

As  an  osprey  afar  in  the  skies,  sees  the  fish  as  they  swim  in  the  waters, 

Oft  spread  they  the  bison-tongue  feast,  and  singing  preferred  their  petitions, 

Till  the  Day-Spirit70  rose  in  the  East — in  the  red,  rosy  robes  of  the  morning, 

To  sail  o'er  the  sea  of  the  skies,  to  his  lodge  in  the  land  of  the  shadows, 

Where  the  black-winged  tornadoes*  arise,  rushing  loud  from  the  mouths  of  the 

caverns. 

And  here  with  a  shudder  they  heard,  flying  far  from  his  tee  in  the  mountains, 
Wa-kin-yan,32  the  huge  Thunder-Bird,  with  the  arrows  of  fire  in  his  talons. 

Two  hundred  white  Winters  and  more  have  fled  from  the  face  of  the  Summer 

Since  here  by  the  cataract's  roar,  in  the  moon  of  the  red-blooming  lilies,71 

In  the  tee  of  Ta-t6-psinf  was  born  Winona — wild  rose  of  the  prairies. 

Like  the  summer  sun  peeping,  at  morn,  o'er  the  hills  was  the  face  of  Winona, 

And  here  she  grew  up  like  a  queen — a  romping  and  lily-lipped  laughter. 

And  danced  on  the  undulant  green,  and  played  in  the  frolicsome  waters, 

Where  the  foaming  tide  tumbles  and  whirls  o'er  the  murmuring  rocks  in  the 

rapids ; 

And  whiter  than  foam  were  the  pearls  that  gleamed  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter. 
Long  and  dark  was  her  flowing  hair  flung  like  the  robe  of  the  night  to  the  breezes  > 
And  gay  as  the  robin  she  sung,  or  the  gold-breasted  lark  of  the  meadows. 
Like  the  wings  of  the  wind  were  her  feet,  and  as  sure  as  the  feet  of  Ta-t6-ka;\ 
And  oft  like  an  antelope  fleet  o'er  the  hills  and  the  prairies  she  bounded, 
Lightly  laughing  in  sport  as  she  ran,  and  looking  back  over  her  shoulder 
At  the  fleet-footed  maiden  or  man  that  vainly  her  flying  feet  followed. 
The  belle  of  the  village  was  she,  and  the  pride  of  the  aged  Ta-t^-psin ; 
Like  a  sunbeam  she  lighted  his  tee,  and  gladdened  the  heart  of  her  father. 

In  the  golden-hued  Wdzu-pe-wtn — the  moon  when  the  wild-rice  is  gathered; 
When  the  leaves  on  the  tall  sugar-tree  are  as  red  as  the  breast  of  the  robin, 
And  the  red-oaks  that  border  the  lea  are  aflame  with  the  fire  of  the  sunset, 
From  the  wide,  waving  fields  of  wild-rice — from  the  meadows  of  P sin-ta-wak- 

pd-dan,§ 

Where  the  geese  and  the  mallards  rejoice,  and  grow  fat  on  the  bountiful  harvest, 
Came  the  hunters  with  saddles  of  moose  and  the  flesh  of  the  bear  and  the  bison, 
And  the  women  in  birch-bark  canoes  well  laden  with  rice  from  the  meadows. 

With  the  tall,  tawny  hunters,  behold,  came  a  marvelous  man  or  a  spirit, 
White-faced  and  so  wrinkled  and  old,  and  clad  in  the  robe  of  the  raven. 

*The  Dakotas,  like  the  ancient  Romans  and  Greeks,  think  the  home  of  the  winds  is  in  the 
caverns  of  the  mountains,  and  their  great  Thunder-bird  resembles  in  many  respects  the  Ju 
piter  of  the  Romans  and  the  Zeus  of  the  Greeks.  The  resemblance  of  the  Dakota  mythol 
ogy  to  that  of  the  older  Greeks  and  Romans  is  striking. 

t  Tate — wind,— pain — wild-rice — wild-rice  wind. 

%  The  mountain  antelope. 

§  Little  Rice  River.  It  bears  the  name  of  Rice  Creek  to-day  and  empties  into  the  Missis 
sippi  irom  the  east,  a  few  miles  above  Minneapolis. 


WINONA  45 

Unsteady  his  steps  were  and  slow,  and  he  walked  with  a  staff  in  his  right  hand, 
And  white  as  the  first-falling  snow  were  the  thin  locks  that  lay  on  his  shoulders. 
Like  rime-covered  moss  hung  his  beard,  flowing  down  from  his  face  to  his  girdle ; 
And  wan  was  his  aspect  and  weird,  and  often  he  chanted  and  mumbled 
In  a  strange  and  mysterious  tongue,  as  he  bent  o'er  his  book  in  devotion, 
Or  lifted  his  dim  eyes  and  sung,  in  a  low  voice,  the  solemn  "  Te  Deum." 
Or  Latin,  or  Hebrevr,  or  Greek — all  the  same  were  his  words  to  the  warriors, — 
All  the  same  to  the  maids  and  the  meek,  wide-wondering-eyed,  hazel-brown 
children. 

Father  Rene-Menard* — it  was  he,  long  lost  to  his  Jesuit  brothers, 
Sent  forth  by  an  holy  decree  to  carry  the  Cross  to  the  heathen. 
In  his  old  age  abandoned  to  die,  in  the  swamps,  by  his  timid  companions, 
He  prayed  to  the  Virgin  on  high,  and  she  led  him  forth  from  the  forest ; 
For  angels  she  sent  him  as  men — in  the  forms  of  the  tawny  Dakotas, 
And  they  led  his  feet  from  the  fen,  from  the  slough  of  despond  and  the  desert, 
Half  dead  in  a  dismal  morass,  as  they  followed  the  red-deer  they  found  him, 
In  the  midst  of  the  mire  and  the  grass,  and  mumbling  "  Te  Deum  laudamus." 
"  Unktdme12 — Ho !"  muttered  the  braves,  for  they  deemed  him  the  black  Spider- 
Spirit 

That  dwells  in  the  drearisome  caves,  and  walks  on  the  marshes  at  midnight, 
With  a  flickering  torch  in  his  hand,  to  decoy  to  his  den  the  unwary. 
His  tongue  could  they  not  understand,  but  his  torn  hands  all  shriveled  with 

famine 

He  stretched  to  the  hunters  and  said:  "He  feedeth  his  chosen  with  manna; 
And  ye  are  the  angels  of  God  sent  to  save  me  from  death  in  the  desert." 
His  famished  and  woe-begone  face,  and  his  tones  touched  the  hearts  of  the 

hunters ; 
They  fed  the  poor  father  apace,  and  they  led  him  away  to  Ka-thd-ga. 

There  little  by  little  he  learned  the  tongue  of  the  tawny  Dakotas; 
And  the  heart  of  the  good  father  yearned  to  lead  them  away  from  their  idols — 
Their  giants16  and  dread  Thunder-birds — their  worship  of  stones73  and  the  devil. 
"Wakdn-de!"-\  they  answered  his  words,  for  he  read  from  his  book  in  the  Latin, 
Lest  the  Nazarene's  holy  commands  by  his  tongue  should  be  marred  in  trans 
lation  ; 

And  oft  with  his  beads  in  his  hands,  or  the  cross  and  the  crucified  Jesus, 
He  knelt  by  himself  on  the  sands,  and  his  dim  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven. 

*  See  the  account  of  Father  Menard,  his  mission  and  disappearance  in  the  wilderness.     Neilis 
Hist.  Minnesota,  pp.  104  to  107  inc. 
t  It  is  wonderful. 


46  WINONA 

But  the  braves  bade  him  look  to  the  East — to  the  silvery  lodge  of  Han-ndn-na;* 
And  to  dance  with  the  chiefs  at  the  feast — at  the  feast  of  the  Giant  Heyo-kal*. 
They  frowned  when  the  good  father  spurned  the  flesh  of  the  dog  in  the  kettle, 
And  laughed  when  his  fingers  were  burned  in  the  hot,  boiling  pot  of  the  giant. 
"The  Black-robe"  they  called  the  poor  priest,  from  the  hue  of  his  robe  and  his 

girdle ; 

And  never  a  game  or  a  feast  but  the  father  must  grace  with  his  presence. 
His  prayer-book  the  hunters  revered, — they  deemed  it  a  marvelous  spirit; 
It  spoke  and  the  white  father  heard, — it  interpreted  visions  and  omens. 
And  often  they  bade  him  to  pray  this  marvelous  spirit  to  answer, 
And  tell  where  the  sly  Chippeway  might  be  ambushed  and  slain  in  his  forest. 
For  Menard  was  the  first  in  the  land,  proclaiming,  like  John  in  the  desert, 
"The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  at  hand;  repent  ye,  and  turn  from  your  idols." 
The  first  of  the  brave  brotherhood  that,  threading  the  fens  and  the  forest, 
Stood  afar  by  the  turbulent  flood  at  the  falls  of  the  Father  of  Waters. 

In  the  lodge  of  the  Strangerf  he  sat,  awaiting  the  crown  of  a  martyr; 

His  sad  face  compassion  begat  in  the  heart  of  the  dark-eyed  Winona. 

Oft  she  came  to  the  teepee  and  spoke;  she  brought  him  the  tongue  of  the  bison, 

Sweet  nuts  from  the  hazel  and  oak,  and  flesh  of  the  fawn  and  the  mallard. 

Soft  hdnpal  she  made  for  his  feet  and  leggins  of  velvety  fawn-skin, 

A  blanket  of  beaver  complete,  and  a  hood  of  the  hide  of  the  otter. 

And  oft  at  his  feet  on  the  mat,  deftly  braiding  the  flags  and  the  rushes, 

Till  the  sun  sought  his  teepee  she  sat,  enchanted  with  what  he  related 

Of  the  white-winged  ships  on  the  sea  and  the  teepees  far  over  the  ocean, 

Of  the  love  and  the  sweet  charity  of  the  Christ  and  the  beautiful  Virgin. 

She  listened  like  one  in  a  trance  when  he  spoke  of  the  brave,  bearded  Frenchmen 

From  the  green,  sun-lit  valleys  of  France  to  the  wild  Hochel6.ga\  transplanted, 

Oft  trailing  the  deserts  of  snow  in  the  heart  of  the  dense  Huron  forests, 

Or  steering  the  dauntless  canoe  through  the  waves  of  the  fresh-water  ocean. 

"Yea,  stronger  and  braver  are  they,"  said  the  aged  Menard  to  Winona, 

"Than  the  head-chief,  tall  Wazi-kute",74  but  their  words  are  as  soft  as  a  maiden's; 

Their  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  the  swan,  but  their  hearts  are  the  hearts  of  the  eagles; 

And  the  terrible  Mdza  Wakdn\\  ever  walks  by  their  side  like  a  spirit; 

Like  a  Thunder-bird,  roaring  in  wrath,  flinging  fire  from  his  terrible  talons, 

He  sends  to  their  enemies  death  in  the  flash  of  the  fatal  Wakdndee."^ 

*  The  morning. 

t  A  lodge  set  apart  for  guests  of  the  village, 
i  Moccassins. 

§  The  Ottawa  name  for  the  region  of  the  St.  Lawrence  River. 

li  "Mysterious  metal"— or  metal  having  a  spirit   in  it.     This  is  the  common  name  applied 
by  the  Dakotas  to  all  firearms. 
•J  Lightning. 


WINONA  47 

The  Autumn  was  past  and  the  snow  lay  drifted  and  deep  on  the  prairies  ; 
From  his  teepee  of  ice  came  the  foe — came  the  storm-breathing  god  of  the  winter  > 
Then  roared  in  the  groves,  on  the  plains,  on  the  ice-covered  lakes  and  the  river, 
The  blasts  of  the  fierce  hurricanes  blown  abroad  from  the  breast  of  Waziya3 
The  bear  cuddled  down  in  his  den,  and  the  elk  fled  away  to  the  forest ; 
The  pheasant  and  gray  prairie-hen  made  their  beds  in  the  heart  of  the  snow-drift ; 
The  bison  herds  huddled  and  stood  in  the  hollows  and  under  the  hill-sides, 
Or  rooted  the  snow  for  their  food  in  the  lee  of  the  bluffs  and  the  timber ; 
And  the  mad  winds  that  howled  from  the  north,  from  the  ice-covered  seas 

of  Waziya; 
Chased  the  gray  wolf  and  silver-fox  forth  to  their  dens  in  the  hills  of  the  forest. 

Poor  Father  Menard — he  was  ill;  in  his  breast  burned  the  fire  of  a  fever; 

All  in  vain  was  the  magical  skill  of  Wicdsta  Wakdn*1  with  his  rattle ; 

Into  soft,  child-like  slumber  he  fell,  and  awoke  in  the  land  of  the  blessdd — 

To  the  holy  applause  of  "Well-done!"  and  the  harps  in  the  hands  of  the  angels. 

Long  he  carried  the  cross  and  he  won  the  coveted  crown  of  a  martyr. 

In  the  land  of  the  heathen  he  died,  meekly  following  the  voice  of  his  Master, 
One  mourner  alone  by  his  side — Ta-t6-psin's  compassionate  daughter. 
She  wailed  the  dead  father  with  tears,  and  his  bones  by  her  kindred  she  buried. 
Then  winter  followed  winter.    The  years  sprinkled  frost  on  the  head  of  her  father  ; 
And  three  weary  winters  she  dreamed  of  the  fearless  and  fair,  bearded  Frenchmen; 
At  midnight  their  swift  paddles  gleamed  on  the  breast  of  the  broad  Mississippi, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  brave  strangers  beamed  on  the  maid  in  the  midst  of  her 
slumber. 

She  lacked  not  admirers ;   the  light  of  the  lover  oft  burned  in  her  teepee — 

At  her  couch  in  the  midst  of  the  night, — but  she  never  extinguished  the  flambeau. 

The  son  of  Chief  Wazi-kut6 — a  fearless  and  eagle-plumed  warrior — 

Long  sighed  for  Winona,  and  he  was  the  pride  of  the  band  of  Is&ntees. 

Three  times,  in  the  night  at  her  bed,  had  the  brave  held  the  torch  of  the  lover,75 

And  thrice  had  she  covered  her  head  and  rejected  the  handsome  Tamdoka.* 

'Twas  Summer.     The  merry-voiced  birds  trilled  and  warbled  in  woodland  and 

meadow ; 

And  abroad  on  the  prairies  the  herds  cropped  the  grass  in  the  land  of  the  lilies, — 
And  sweet  was  the  odor  of  rose  wide-wafted  from  hillside  and  heather; 
In  the  leaf-shaded  lap  of  repose  lay  the  bright,  blue-eyed  babes  of  the  summer; 
And  low  was  the  murmur  of  brooks,  and  low  was  the  laugh  of  the  Ha-Ha;     78 

*Tah-mdo-kah — literally,  the  buck-deer. 


48  WINONA 

And  asleep  in  the  eddies  and  nooks  lay  the  broods  of  magd10  and  the  mallard. 
'Twas  the  moon  of  Wasunpa.11     The  band  lay  at  rest  in  the  tees  at  Ka-thd-ga, 
And  abroad  o'er  the  beautiful  land  walked  the  spirits  of  Peace  and  of  Plenty — 
Twin  sisters,  with  bountiful  hand  wide  scattering  wild-rice  and  the  lilies. 
An-p6-tu-ivee™  walked  in  the  west — to  his  lodge  in  the  far-away  mountains, 
And  the  war-eagle  flew  to  her  nest  in  the  oak  on  the  Isle  of  the  Spirit.* 
And  now  at  the  end  of  the  day,  by  the  shore  of  the  Beautiful  Island,f 
A  score  of  fair  maidens  and  gay  made  joy  in  the  midst  of  the  waters. 
Half-robed  in  their  dark,  flowing  hair,  and  limbed  like  the  fair  Aphrodite". 
They  played  in  the  waters,  and  there  they  dived  and  they  swam  like  the  beavers, 
Loud-laughing  like  loons  on  the  lake  when  the  moon  is  a  round  shield  of  silver, 
And  the  songs  of  the  whippowils  wake  on  the  shore  in  the  midst  of  the  maples. 

But  hark! — on  the  river  a  song, — strange  voices  commingled  in  chorus; 
On  the  current  a  boat  swept  along  with  DuLuth  and  his  hardy  companions; 
To  the  stroke  of  their  paddles  they  sung,  and  this  the  refrain  that  they  chanted : 

"Dans  mon  chemin  j'ai  rencontre" 
Deux  cavaliers  bien  months. 

Lon,  Ion,  laridon  daine, 

Lon,  Ion,  laridon  da." 
"Deux  cavaliers  bien  montes; 
L'un  &  cheval,  et  1'autre  £  pied. 

Lon,  Ion,  laridon  daine, 

Lon,  Ion,  laridon  da."J 

Like  the  red,  dappled  deer  in  the  glade  alarmed  by  the  footsteps  of  hunters, 
Discovered,  disordered,  dismayed,  the  nude  nymphs  fled  forth  from  the  waters, 
And  scampered  away  to  the  shade,  and  peered  from  the  screen  of  the  lindens. 

A  bold  and  adventuresome  man  was  DuLuth,  and  a  dauntless  in  danger, 
And  straight  to  Kathdga  he  ran,  and  boldly  advanced  to  the  warriors, 
Now  gathering,  a  cloud  on  the  strand,  and  gazing  amazed  on  the  strangers; 
And  straightway  he  offered  his  hand  unto  Wazi-kute",  the  Itdncan.§ 
To  the  Lodge  of  the  Stranger  were  led  DuLuth  and  his  hardy  companions; 
Robes  of  beaver  and  bison  were  spread,  and  the  Peace-pipe23  was  smoked  with 
the  Frenchman. 

*The  Dakotas  say  that  for  many  years  in  olden  times  war-eagles  made  their  nests  in  oak  trees 
on  Spirit-island — Wanagi-wita,  just  below  the  Falls,  till  frightened  away  by  the  advent  of  white 
men. 

tThe  Dakotas  called  Nicollet  Island  Wi-ta  Waste — the  Beautiful  Island. 

JA  part  of  one  of  the  favorite  songs  of  the  French  voyageurs. 

§Head-chief. 


W I  NONA  49 

There  was  dancing  atid  feasting  at  night,  and  joy  at  the  presents  he  lavished. 
All  the  maidens  were  wild  with  delight  with  the  flaming  red  robes  and  the  ribbons, 
With  the  beads  and  the  trinkets  untold,  and  the  fair,  bearded  face  of  the  giver, 
And  glad  were  they  all  to  behold  the  friends  from  the  Land  of  the  Sunrise. 
But  one  stood  apart  from  the  rest — the  queenly  and  silent  Winona, 
Intently  regarding  the  guest — hardly  heeding  the  robes  and  the  ribbons, 
Whom  the  White  Chief  beholding  admired,  and  straightway  he  spread  on  her 

shoulders 

A  lily-red  robe  and  attired  with  necklet  and  ribbons  the  maiden. 
The  red  lilies  bloomed  on  her  face,  and  her  glad  eyes  gave  thanks  to  the  giver, 
And  forth  from  her  teepee  apace  she  brought  him  the  robe  and  the  missal 
Of  the  father — poor  Rene  Menard;   and  related  the  tale  of  the  "Black  Robe." 
She  spoke  of  the  sacred  regard  he  inspired  in  the  hearts  of  Dakotas ; 
That  she  buried  his  bones  with  her  kin,  in  the  mound  by  the  Cave  of  the  Council; 
That  she  treasured  and  wrapt  in  the  skin  of  the  red-deer  his  robe  and  his  prayer 

book — 
"Till  his  brothers  should  come  from  the  East — from  the  land  of  the  far  Hoche- 

Idga, 
To  smoke  with  the  braves  at  the  feast,  on  the  shores  of  the  Loud-laughing 

Waters.78 
"For  the  'Black  Robe'  spake  much  of  his  youth  and  his  friends  in  the  Land  of 

the  Sunrise; 

It  was  then  as  a  dream;  now  in  truth  I  behold  them,  and  not  in  a  vision." 
But  more  spake  her  blushes,  I  ween,  and  her  eyes  full  of  language  unspoken, 
As  she  turned  with  the  grace  of  a  queen  and  carried  her  gifts  to  the  teepee. 

Far  away  from  his  beautiful  France — from  his  home  in  the  city  of  Lyons, 

A  noble  youth  full  of  romance,  with  a  Norman  heart  big  with  adventure, 

In  the  new  world  a  wanderer,  by  chance  DuLuth  sought  the  wild  Huron  forests. 

But  afar  by  the  vale  of  the  Rhone,  the  winding  and  musical  river, 

And  the  vine-covered  hills  of  the  Saone,  the  heart  of  the  wanderer  lingered, — 

'Mid  the  vineyards  and  mulberry  trees,  and  the  fair  fields  of  corn  and  of  clover 

That  rippled  and  waved  in  the  breeze,  while  the  honey-bees  hummed  in  the 

blossoms. 
For  there,  where  th'  impetuous  Rhone,  leaping  down  from  the  Switzerland 

mountains, 

And  the  silver-lipped,  soft-flowing  Saone,  meeting,  kiss  and  commingle  together, 
Down  winding  by  vineyards  and  leas,  by  the  orchards  of  fig-trees  and  olives, 
To  the  island-gemmed,  sapphire-blue  seas  of  the  glorious  Greeks  and  the  Romans; 
Aye,  there,  on  the  vine-covered  shore,  'mid  the  mulberry  trees  and  the  olives, 
Dwelt  his  blue-eyed  and  beautiful  Flore,  with  her  hair  like  a  wheat-field  at 

harvest, 


50  WINONA 

All  rippled  and  tossed  by  the  breeze,  and  her  cheeks  like  the  glow  of  the  morning, 
Far  away  o'er  the  emerald  seas,  when  the  sun  lifts  his  brow  from  the  billows, 
Or  the  red-clover  fields  when  the  bees,  singing  sip  the  sweet  cups  of  the  blossoms. 
Wherever  he  wandered — alone  in  the  heart  of  the  wild  Huron  forests, 
Or  cruising  the  rivers  unknown  to  the  land  of  the  Crees  or  Dakotas — 
His  heart  lingered  still  on  the  Rhone,  'mid  the  mulberry  trees  and  the  vineyards, 
Fast-fettered  and  bound  by  the  zone  that  girdled  the  robes  of  his  darling. 
Till  the  red  Harvest  Moon71  he  remained  in  the  vale  of  the  swift  Mississippi. 
The  esteem  of  the  warriors  he  gained,  and  the  love  of  the  dark-eyed  Winona. 
He  joined  in  the  sports  and  the  chase ;  with  the  hunters  he  followed  the  bison, 
And  swift  were  his  feet  in  the  race  when  the  red  elk  they  ran  on  the  prairies, 
At  the  Game  of  the  Plum-stones77  he  played,  and  he  won  from  the  skillfullest 

players ; 

A  feast  to  Watdnka16  he  made,  and  he  danced  at  the  feast  of  Heytika.19 
With  the  flash  and  the  roar  of  his  gun  he  astonished  the  fearless  Dakotas; 
They  called  it  the  "Mdza  Wakdn" — the  mighty,  mysterious  metal. 
"Tis'  a  brother,"  they  said,  "of  the  fire  in  the  talons  of  dreadful  Wakinyan** 
When  he  flaps  his  huge  wings  in  his  ire,  and  shoots  his  red  shafts  at  Unktehee."* 

The  Itdncan,14  tall  Wazi-kut6,  appointed  a  day  for  the  races. 

From  the  red  stake  that  stood  by  his  tee,  on  the  southerly  side  of  the  Ha-  Ha, 

O'er  the  crest  of  the  hills  and  the  dunes  and  the  billowy  breadth  of  the  prairie, 

To  a  stake  at  the  Lake  of  the  Loons79 — a  league  and  return — was  the  distance. 

They  gathered  from  near  and  afar,  to  the  races  and  dancing  and  feasting ; 

Five  hundred  tall  warriors  were  there  from  Kapdza*  and  far-off  Kedza;* 

Remnika,*  too,  furnished  a  share  of  the  legions  that  thronged  to  the  races, 

And  a  bountiful  feast  was  prepared  by  the  diligent  hands  of  the  women, 

And  gaily  the  multitudes  fared  in  the  generous  tees  of  Kathdga. 

The  chief  of  the  mystical  clan  appointed  a  feast  to   Unktehee — 

The  mystic  "Wacipee  Wakdn"^ — at  the  end  of  the  day  and  the  races. 

A  band  of  sworn  brothers  are  they,  and  the  secrets  of  each  one  are  sacred, 

And  death  to  the  lips  that  betray  is  the  doom  of  the  swarthy  avengers, 

And  the  son  of  tall  Wazi-kute  was  the  chief  of  the  mystical  order. 

THE  FOOT  RACES 

On  an  arm  of  an  oak  hangs  the  prize  for  the  swiftest  and  strongest  of  runners, 
A  blanket  as  red  as  the  skies,  when  the  flames  sweep  the  plains  in  October. 
And  beside  it  a  strong,  polished  bow,  and  a  quiver  of  copper-tipped  arrows, 

*Pronounced  Ray-mne-chah — The  village  of  the  Mountains,  situate  where  Red  Wing  now  stands. 
tSacred  Dance — The  Medicine-dance — See  description  infra. 


W 1 NONA  51 

•f 

Which  Kaptiza's  tall  chief  will  bestow  on  the  fleet-footed  second  that  follows. 
A  score  of  swift  runners  are  there  from  the  several  bands  of  the  nation, 
And  now  for  the  races  they  prepare,  and  among  them  fleet-footed  Tamdoka. 
With  the  oil  of  the  buck  and  the  bear  their  sinewy  limbs  are  annointed, 
For  fleet  are  the  feet  of  the  deer  and  strong  are  the  limbs  of  the  bruin. 

Hark! — the  shouts  and  the  braying  of  drums,  and  the  babel  of  tongues  and 
confusion ! 

From  his  teepee  the  tall  chietain  comes,  and  DuLuth  brings  a  prize  for  the  run 
ners — 

A  keen  hunting-knife  from  the  Seine,  horn-handled  and  mounted  with  silver. 

The  runners  are  ranged  on  the  plain,  and  the  Chief  waves  a  flag  as  a  signal, 

And  away  like  the  gray  wolves  they  fly — like  the  wolves  on  the  trail  of  the  red- 
deer; 

O'er  the  hills  and  the  prairie  they  vie,  and  strain  their  strong  limbs  to  the  utmost, 

While  high  on  the  hills  hangs  a  cloud  of  warriors  and  maidens  and  mothers, 

To  watch  the  swift-runners,  and  loud  are  the  cheers  and  the  shouts  of  the  war 
riors. 

Now  swift  from  the  lake  they  return  o'er  the  emerald  hills  of  the  prairies; 

Like  grey-hounds  they  pant  and  they  yearn,  and  the  leader  of  all  is  Tamd6ka. 

At  his  heels  flies  Hu-pd-hu*  the  fleet — the  pride  of  the  band  of  Katiza, — 

A  warrior  with  eagle-winged  feet,  but  his  prize  is  the  bow  and  the  quiver. 

Tamd6ka  first  reaches  the  post,  and  his  are  the  knife  and  the  blanket, 

By  the  mighty  acclaim  of  the  host  and  award  of  the  chief  and  the  judges. 

Then  proud  was  the  tall  warrior's  stride,  and  haughty  his  look  and  demeanor; 

He  boasted  aloud  in  his  pride,  and  he  scoffed  at  the  rest  of  the  runners. 

"Behold  me,  for  I  am  a  manlf  my  feet  are  as  swift  as  the  West-wind. 

With  the  coons  and  the  beavers  I  ran ;  but  where  is  the  elk  or  the  cabri90 

Come! — where  is  the  hunter  will  dare  match  his  feet  with  the  feet  of  Tamd6ka? 

Let  him  think  of  Tatel  and  beware,  ere  he  stake  his  last  robe  on  the  trial." 

"  Oh6 — Ho — Ho-heca!"  §  they  jeered,  for  they  liked  not  the  boast  of  the  boaster; 

But  to  match  him  no  warrior  appeared,  for  his  feet  wore  the  wings  of  the  west 
wind. 

Then  forth  from  the  side  of  the  chief  stepped  DuLuth  and  he  looked  on  the 
boaster ; 

"The  words  of  a  warrior  are  brief, — I  will  run  with  the  brave,"  said  the  French 
man; 

"But  the  feet  of  Tamdoka  are  tired;  abide  till  the  cool  of  the  sunset." 

All  the  hunters  and  maidens  admired,  for  strong  were  the  limbs  of  the  stranger. 

*The  wings.  tA  favorite  boast  of  the  Dakota  braves. 

JThe  wind.  §About   equivalent   to   Oho! — Aha! — fudge! 


52  W1NONA 

1  'Hiw6 — Ho!"  *  they  shouted  and  loud  rose  the  cheers  of  the  multitude  mingled; 
And  there  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  stood  the  glad-eyed  and  blushing  Winona. 

Now  afar  o'er  the  plains  of  the  west  walked  the  sun  at  the  end  of  his  journey, 
And  forth  came  the  brave  and  the  guest,  at  the  tap  of  the  drum,  for  the  trial. 
Like  a  forest  of  larches  the  hordes  were  gathered  to  wintess  the  contest ; 
As  loud  as  the  drums  were  their  words  and  they  roared  like  the  roar  of  the  Ha-ha. 
For  some  for  Tamdoka  contend,  and  some  for  the  fair-bearded  stranger, 
And  the  betting  runs  high  to  the  end,  with  the  skins  of  the  bison  and  beaver. 
A  wife  of  tall  Wazf-kut6 — the  mother  of  boastful  Tamd6ka — 
Brought  her  handsomest  robe  from  the  tee  with  a  vaunting  and  loud  proclama 
tion: 

She  would  stake  her  last  robe  on  her  son  who,  she  boasted,  was  fleet  as  the  cabri** 
And  the  tall,  tawny  chieftain  looked  on,  approving  the  boast  of  the  mother. 
Then  fleet  as  the  feet  of  a  fawn  to  her  lodge  ran  the  dark-eyed  Winona, 
She  brought  and  she  spread  on  the  lawn,  by  the  side  of  the  robe  of  the  boaster, 
The  lily-red  mantel  DuLuth,  with  his  own  hands,  had  laid  on  her  shoulders. 
"Tamdoka  is  swift,  but  forsooth,  the  tongue  of  his  mother  is  swifter," 
She  said,  and  her  face  was  aflame  with  the  red  of  the  rose  and  the  lily, 
And  loud  was  the  roar  of  acclaim ;  but  dark  was  the  face  of  Tamd6ka. 
They  strip  for  the  race  and  prepare, — DuLuth  in  his  breeches  and  leggins; 
And  the  brown,  curling  locks  of  his  hair  down  droop  to  his  bare,  brawny  shoul 
ders, 

And  his  face  wears  a  smile  debonair,  as  he  tightens  his  red  sash  around  him. 
But  stripped  to  the  moccasins  bare,  save  the  belt  and  the  breech-clout  of  buck 
skin, 

Stands  the  haughty  Tamd6ka  aware  that  the  eyes  of  the  warriors  admire  him ; 
For  his  arms  are  the  arms  of  a  bear  and  his  legs  are  the  legs  of  a  panther. 

The  drum  beats, — the  chief  waves  the  flag,  and  away  on  the  course  speed  the 

runners, 
And  away  leads  the  brave   like  a  stag, — like    a   hound   on   his   track   flies   the 

Frenchman  ; 

And  away  haste  the  hunters  once  more  to  the  hills,  for  a  view  to  the  lakeside, 
And  the  dark-swarming  hill-tops,  they  roar  with  the    storm   of    loud    voices 

commingled. 

Far  away  o'er  the  prairie  they  fly,  and  still  in  the  lead  is  Tamd6ka, 
But  the  feet  of  his  rival  are  nigh,  and  slowly  he  gains  on  the  hunter. 
Now  they  turn  on  the  post  at  the  lake, — now  they  run   full    abreast   on   the 

home-stretch : 
Side  by  side  they  contend  for  the  stake  for  a  long  mile  or  more  on  the  prairie. 

*Hurra  there! 


.*  W I NONA  53 

They  strain  like  a  stag  and  a  hound,  when  the  swift  river  gleams  through 

the  thicket, 
And  the  horns  of  the  riders  resound,  winding  shrill  through  the  depths  of  the 

forest. 
But  behold! — at  full  length  on  the  ground  falls  the  fleet-footed  Frenchman 

abruptly, 

And  away  with  a  whoop  and  a  bound  springs  the  eager,  exulting  Tamdoka. 
Long  and  loud  on  the  hills  is  the  shout  of  his  swarthy  admirers  and  backers ; 
"But  the  race  is  not  won  till  it's  out,"  said  DuLuth,  to  himself  as  he  gathered, 
With  a  frown  on  his  face,  for  the  foot  of  the  wily  Tamdoka  had  tripped  him. 
Well  ahead  ran  the  brave  on  the  route,  and  turning  he  boasted  exultant. 
Like  spurs  to  the  steed  to  DuLuth  were  the  jeers  and  the  taunts  of  the  boaster ; 
Indignant  was  he  and  red  wroth  at  the  trick  of  the  runner  dishonest; 
And  away  like  a  whirlwind  he  speeds — like  a  hurricane  mad  from  the  mountains, 
He  gains  on  Tamdoka, — he  leads! — and  behold,  with  the  spring  of  a  panther, 
He  leaps  to  the  goal  and  succeeds,  'mid  the  roar  of  the  mad  acclamation. 

Then  glad  as  the  sky-lark  in  May  was  the  voice  of  Winona  exulting; 
Tamdoka  turned  sullen  away,  and  sulking  he  walked  by  the  river; 
He  glowered  as  he  went  and  the  fire  of  revenge  in  his  bosom  was  kindled : 
Dark  was  his  visage  with  ire  and  his  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  panther. 

THE  WAKAN-WACEPEE,  OR  SACRED  DANCE.81 

Lo  the  lights  in  the  "  Teepee-Wakdn!"    'tis  the  night  of  the  Wakan  Wacepee. 
Round  and  round  walks  the  chief  of  the  clan,  as  he  rattles  the  sacred  Ta-shd-kay,*2 
Long  and  loud  on  the  Chdn-che-ga*1  beat  the  drummers  with  magical  drumsticks, 
And  the  notes  of  the  Cho-tdnkasl  greet  like  the  murmur  of  winds  on  the  waters. 
By  the  friction  of  white-cedar  wood  for  the  feast  was  a  Virgin-fire20  kindled. 
They  that  enter  the  firm  brotherhood  first  must  fast  and  be  cleansed  by  E-ns6- 

pee;*1 

And  from  foot-sole  to  crown  of  the  head  must  they  paint  with  the  favorite  colors ; 
For  Unktehee  likes  bands  of  blood-red,  with  the  stripings  of  blue  intermingled. 
In  the  hollow  earth,  dark  and  profound,   Unktehee  and  fiery  Wakinyan 
Long  fought,  and  the  terrible  sound  of  the  battle  was  louder  than  thunder; 
The  mountains  were  heaved  and  around  were  scattered  the  hills  and  the  boulders, 
And  the  vast  solid  plains  of  the  ground  rose  and  fell  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean. 
But  the  god  of  the  waters  prevailed.      Wakin-yan  escaped  from  the  cavern, 
And  long  on  the  mountains  he  wailed,  and  his  hatred  endureth  forever. 

When   Unktehee  had  finished  the  earth,  and  the  beasts  and  the  birds  and  the 
fishes, 


54  WINONA 

And  men  at  his  bidding  came  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  huge  hollow  mountains,8* 
A  band  chose  the  god  from  the  hordes,  and  he  said :  "Ye  are  the  sons  of  Unktehee : 
Ye  are  lords  of  the  beasts  and  the  birds,  and  the  fishes  that  swim  in  the  waters. 
But  hearken  ye  now  to  my  words, — let  them  sound  in  your  bosoms  forever: 
Ye  shall  honor   Unktehee  and  hate  Wakinyan,  the  Spirit  of  Thunder, 
For  the  power  of  Unktehee  is  great,  and  he  laughs  at  the  darts  of  Wakinyan. 
Ye  shall  honor  the  Earth  and  the  Sun, — for  they  are  your  father  and  mother;70 
Let  your  prayer  to  the  Sun  be: — Wakdn  Ate;   on-si-md-da  ohec-nee."* 
And  remember  the  Tdku  Wakdn,13  all-pervading  in  earth  and  in  ether — 
Invisible  ever  to  man,  but  he  dwells  in  the  midst  of  all  matter; 
Yea,  he  dwells  in  the  heart  of  the  stone — in  the  hard  granite  heart  of  the  boulder ; 
Ye  shall  call  him  forever  Tunkdn — grandfather  of  all  the  Dakotas. 
Ye  are  men  that  I  choose  for  my  own;  ye  shall  be  as  a  strong  band  of  brothers, 
Now  I  give  you  the  magical  bone  and  the  magical  pouch  of  the  spirits. f 
And  these  are  the  laws  ye  shall  heed :  Ye  shall  honor  the  pouch  and  the  giver. 
Ye  shall  walk  as  twin-brothers;   in  need,  one  shall  forfeit  his  life  for  another. 
Listen  not  to  the  voice  of  the  crow.t     Hold  as  sacred  the  wife  of  a  brother. 
Strike,  and  fear  not  the  shaft  of  the  foe,  for  the  soul  of  the  brave  is  immortal. 
Slay  the  warrior  in  battle,  but  spare  the  innocent  babe  and  the  mother. 
Remember  a  promise; — beware, — let  the  word  of  a  warrior  be  sacred. 
When  a  stranger  arrives  at  the  tee — be  he  friend  of  the  band  or  a  foeman, 
Give  him  food ;  let  your  bounty  be  free ;  lay  a  robe  for  the  guest  by  the  lodge-fire ; 
Let  him  go  to  his  kindred  in  peace,  if  the  peace-pipe  he  smoke  in  the  teepee; 
And  so  shall  your  children  increase,  and  your  lodges  shall  laugh  with  abundance. 
And  long  shall  ye  live  in  the  land,  and  the  spirits  of  earth  and  the  waters 
Shall  come  to  your  aid,  at  command,  with  the  power  of  invisible  magic. 
And  at  last,  when  you  journey  afar — o'er  the  shining  "Wandgee  Ta-chdn-ku,"3* 
You  shall  walk  as  a  red,  shining  star18  in  the  land  of  perpetual  summer." 

All  the  night  in  the  teepee  they  sang,  and  they  danced  to  the  mighty   Unktehee, 
While  the  loud-braying  Chdn-che-ga  rang  and  the  shrill-piping  flute  and  the  rattle, 
Till  Anpetuwee™  rose  in  the  east — from  the  couch  of  the  blushing  Han-ndn-na, 
And  thus  at  the  dance  and  the  feast  sang  the  sons  of  Unktehee  in  chorus : 

"Wa-du-ta  o-hnci  mi-kd-ge! 
Wa-du-ta  o-hnd  mi-ka-ge! 
Mini-ydta  it6  wakdnd&  maku, 
Ate  wakan — Tunkansidan. 

Tunkansidan  pejihuta  wakan 


*"Sacred  Spirit!    Father!   have  pity  on  me  always." 
tRiggs'  Takoo  Wakan,  p.  90.  JS1 


JSlander. 


OF 

(  UNIVERSITY   j 

or  / 

?4UF< 

t^--71 ...... 


WIN  ON  A  55 

Micag£ — he  Wicage! 
Mini-ydta  it6  wakande  maku. 
Tunkdnsidan  ite,  nap&  du-win-ta  woo, 
Wahutopa  wan  yuha,  nape  du-win-ta  woo." 

TRANSLATION. 

In  red  swan-down  he  made  it  for  me ; 
In  red  swan-down  he  made  it  for  me ; 
He  of  the  water — he  of  the  mysterious  face — 

Gave  it  to  me ; 
Sacred  Father — Grandfather! 

Grandfather  made  me  magical  medicine : 

That  is  true! 
Being  of  mystery, — grown  in  the  water — 

He  gave  it  to  me! 

To  the  face  of  our  Grandfather  stretch  out  your  hand ; 
Holding  a  quadruped,  stretch  out  your  hand! 

Till  high  o'er  the  hills  of  the  east  Anpetuwee  walked  on  his  journey, 

In  secret  they  danced  at  the  feast,  and  communed  with  the  mighty   Unktehee. 

Then  opened  the  door  of  the  tee  to  the  eyes  of  the  wondering  Dakotas, 

And  the  sons  of  Unktehee  to  be,  were  endowed  with  the  sacred  Oziiha^ 

By  the  son  of  tall  Wazi-kute,  Tamdoka,  the  chief  of  the  Magi. 

And  thus  since  the  birth-day  of  man — since  he  sprang  from  the  heart  of  the 

mountains,69 

Has  the  sacred  "Wactpee  Wakdn"  by  the  warlike  Dakotas  been  honored, 
And  the  god-favored  sons  of  the  clan  work  their  will  with  the  help  of  the  spirits. 

WINONA'S  WARNING. 

'Twas  sunrise;  the  spirits  of  mist  trailed  their  white  robes  on  dewy  savanans, 
And  the  flowers  raised  their  heads  to  be  kissed  by  the  first  golden  beams  of  the 

morning. 

The  breeze  was  abroad  with  the  breath  of  the  rose  of  the  Isles  of  the  Summer, 
And  the  humming-bird  hummed  on  the  heath  from  his  home  in  the  land  of  the 

rain-bow.* 

'Twas  the  morn  of  departure.     DuLuth  stood  alone  by  the  roar  of  the  Ha-ha; 
Tall  and  fair  in  the  strength  of  his  youth  stood  the  blue-eyed  and  fair-bearded 

Frenchman. 

A  rustle  of  robes  on  the  grass  broke  his  dream  as  he  mused  by  the  waters, 
And,  turning,  he  looked  on  the  face  of  Winona,  wild-rose  of  the  prairies, 

*The  Dakotas  say  the  humming-bird  comes  from  the  "Land  of  the  rain-bow." 


56  WIN  ON  A 

Half  hid  in  her  dark,  flowing  hair,  like  the  round,  golden  moon  in  the  pine-tops. 
Admiring  he  gazed — she  was  fair  as  his  own  blooming  Flore  in  her  orchards, 
With  her  golden  locks  loose  on  the  air,  like  the  gleam  of  the  sun  through  the 

olives, 

Far  away  on  the  vine-covered  shore,  in  the  sun-favored  land  of  his  fathers. 
"Lists  the  chief  to  the  cataract's  roar  for  the  mournful  lament  of  the  Spirit  ?"* 
Said  Winona, — "The  wail  of  the  sprite  for  her  babe  and  its  father  unfaithful 
Is  heard  in  the  midst  of  the  night,  when  the  moon  wanders  dim  in  the  heavens." 

"Wild-Rose  of  the  Prairies,"  he  said,  "DuLuth  listens  not  to  the  Ha-ha, 
For  the  wail  of  the  ghost  of  the  dead  for  her  babe  and  its  father  unfaithful; 
But  he  lists  to  a  voice  in  his  heart  that  is  heard  by  the  ear  of  no  other, 
And  to-day  will  the  White  Chief  depart;  he  returns  to  the  land  of  the  sunrise." 
"Let  Winona  depart  with  the  chief, — she  will  kindle  the  fire  in  his  teepee; 
For  long  are  the  days  of  her  grief,  if  she  stay  in  the  tee  of  Ta-t6-psin," 
She  replied,  and  her  cheeks  were  aflame  with  the  bloom  of  the  wild  prairie  lilies. 
"  TanktJ  is  the  White  Chief  to  blame  ?"  said  DuLuth  to  the  blushing  Winona. 
"The  White  Chief  is  blameless,"  she  said,  "but  the  heart  of  Winona  will  follow 
Wherever  thy  footsteps  may  lead,  O  blue-eyed,  brave  Chief  of  the  white  men. 
For  my  mother  sleeps  long  in  the  mound,  and  a  step-mother  rules  in  the  teepse, 
And  my  father,  once  strong  and  renowned,  is  bent  with  the  weight  of  his  winters. 
No  longer  he  handles  the  spear, — no  longer  his  swift,  humming  arrows 
Overtake  the  fleet  feet  of  the  deer,  or  the  bear  of  the  woods,  or  the  bison; 
But  he  bends  as  he  walks,  and  the  wind  shakes  his  white  hair  and  hinders  his 

footsteps ; 

And  soon  will  he  leave  me  behind,  without  brother  or  sister  or  kindred. 
The  dog  scents  the  wolf  in  the  wind,  and  a  wolf  walks  the  path  of  Winona. 
Three  times  have  the  gifts  for  the  bride18  to  the  lodge  of  Ta-t6-psin  been  carried, 
But  the  voice  of  Winona  replied  that  she  liked  not  the  haughty  Tamdoka. 
And  thrice  were  the  gifts  sent  away,  but  the  tongue  of  the  mother  protested, 
And  the  were- wolf52  still  follows  his  prey,  and  abides  but  the  death  of  my  father." 

"I  pity  Winona,"  he  said,  "but  my  path  is  a  pathway  of  danger, 

And  long  is  the  trail  for  the  maid  to  the  far-away  land  of  the  sunrise ; 

And  few  are  the  braves  of  my  band,  and  the  braves  of  Tamdoka  are  many ; 

But  soon  I  return  to  the  land,  and  a  cloud  of  my  hunters  will  follow. 

When  the  cold  winds  of  winter  return  and  toss  the  white  robes  of  the  prairies, 

The  fire  of  the  White  Chief  will  burn  in  his  lodge  at  the  Meeting-of-  Waters  ;| 

And  when  from  the  Sunrise  again  comes  the  chief  of  the  sons  of  the  Morning, 

*See  Legend  of  the  Falls,  or  Note  28 — Appendix. 
tMy  Sister. 

JMendota — properly    Mdo-te — meaning  the  out-let  of  a  lake  or   river    into  another,  commonly 
applied  to  the  region  about  Fort  Snelling. 


WIN  ON  A  57 

Many  moons  will  his  hunters  remain  in  the  land  of  the  friendly  Dakotas. 
The  son  of  Chief  Wazi-Kut6  guides  the  White  Chief  afar  on  his  journey; 
Nor  long  on  the  Tdnka  Mede* — on  the  breast  of  the  blue,  bounding  billows — 
Will  the  bark  of  the   Frenchman  delay,  but  his  pathway  will  kindle  behind 
him." 

She  was  pale,  and  her  hurried  voice  swelled  with  alarm  as  she  questioned  re 
plying— 

"Tamdoka  thy  guide? — I  beheld  thy  death  in  his  face  at  the  races. 

He  covers  his  heart  with  a  smile,  but  revenge  never  sleeps  in  his  bosom ; 

His  tongue — it  is  soft  to  beguile;  but  beware  of  the  pur  of  the  panther! 

For  death,  like  a  shadow,  will  walk  by  thy  side  in  the  midst  of  the  forest, 

Or  follow  thy  path  like  a  hawk  on  the  trail  of  a  wounded  Mastinca.^ 

A  son  of  Unktehee  is  he, — the  Chief  of  the  crafty  magicians ; 

They  have  plotted  thy  death ;    I  can  see  thy  trail — it  is  red  in  the  forest ; 

Beware  of  Tamdoka, — beware.     Slumber  not  like  the  grouse  of  the  woodlands, 

With  head  under  wing,  for  the  glare  of  the  eyes  that  sleep  not  are  upon  thee." 

"Winona,  fear  not,"  said  DuLuth,  "for  I  carry  the  fire  of  Wakinyan,% 

And  strong  is  the  arm  of  my  youth,  and  stout  are  the  hearts  of  my  warriors ; 

But  Winona  has  spoken  the  truth,  and  the  heart  of  the  White  Chief  is  thankful. 

Hide  this  in  thy  bosom,  dear  maid, — 'tis  the  crucified  Christ  of  the  white  men.§ 

Lift  thy  voice  to  his  spirit  in  need,  and  his  spirit  will  hear  thee  and  answer; 

For  often  he  comes  to  my  aid;   he  is  stronger  than  all  the  Dakotas; 

And  the  Spirits  of  evil,  afraid,  hide  away  when  he  looks  from  the  heavens." 

In  her  swelling,  brown  bosom  she  hid  the  crucified  Jesus  in  silver; 

"Niwdste,"\\  she  sadly  replied;   in  her  low  voice  the  rising  tears  trembled; 

Her  dewy  eyes  turned  she  aside,  and  she  slowly  returned  to  the  teepees. 

But  still  on  the  swift  river's  strand,  admiring  the  graceful  Winona, 

As  she  gathered,  with  brown,  dimpled  hand,  her  hair  from  the  wind,  stood  the 
Frenchman. 

DULUTH'S  DEPARTURE. 

To  bid  the  brave  White  Chief  adieu,  on  the  shady  shore  gathered  the  warriors ; 
His  glad  boatmen  manned  the  canoe,  and  the  oars  in  their  hands  were  impatient. 
Spake  the  Chief  of  Isdntees:   "A  feast  will  await  the  return  of  my  brother. 
In  peace  rose  the  sun  in  the  East,  in  peace  in  the  West  he  descended. 
May  the  feet  of  my  brother  be  swift  till  they  bring  him  again  to  our  teepees, 

*Tanka-Mede— Great  Lake,  i.e.,  Lake  Superior.  The  Dakotas  seem  to  have  had  no  other  name 
for  it.  They  generally  referred  to  it  as  Mini-ya-ta — There  at  the  water. 

tThe  rabbit.     The  Dakotas  called  the  Crees  "Mastincapi" — Rabbits. 

JI.e.  fire-arms  which  the  Dakotas  compare  to  the  roar  of  the  wings  of  the  Thunder-bird  and  jhe 
fiery  arrows  he  shoots. 

§DuLuth  was  a  devout  Catholic.  \\Nee-wah-shtay — Thou  art  good. 


58  WIN  ON  A 

The  red  pipe  he  takes  as  a  gift,  may  he  smoke  that  red  pipe  many  winters. 

At  my  lodge-fire  his  pipe  shall  be  lit,  when  the  White  Chief  returns  to  Kathd%a; 

On  the  robes  of  my  tee  shall  he  sit;  he  shall  smoke  with  the  chiefs  of  my  people. 

The  brave  love  the  brave,  and  his  son  sends  the  Chief  as  a  guide  for  his  brother, 

By  the  way  of  the  Wakpa  Wakdn*  to  the  Chief  at  the  Lake  of  the  Spirits. 

As  light  as  the  foot-steps  of  dawn  are  the  feet  of  the  stealthy  Tamd6ka; 

He  fears  not  the  Mdza  Wakdn ;f  he  is  sly  as  the  fox  of  the  forest. 

When  he  dances  the  dance  of  red  war  howl  the  wolves  by  the  broad  Mini-yata,** 

For  they  scent  on  the  south-wind  afar  their  feast  on  the  bones  of  Ojibways." 

Thrice  the  Chief  puffed  the  red  pipe  of  peace,  ere  it  passed  to  the  lips  of  the 

Frenchman. 
Spake  DuLuth:   "May  the  Great  Spirit  bless  with  abundance  the  Chief  and  his 

people ; 
May  their  sons  and  their  daughters  increase,  and  the  fire  ever  burn  in  their 

teepees." 

Then  he  waved  with  a  flag  his  adieu  to  the  Chief  and  the  warriors  assembled ; 
And  away  shot  Tamdoka's  canoe  to  the  strokes  of  ten  sinewy  hunters; 
And  a  white  path  he  clove  up  the  blue,  bubbling  stream  of  the  swift  Mississippi  ; 
And  away  on  his  foaming  trail  flew,  like  a  sea-gull,  the  bark  of  the  Frenchman. 
Then  merrily  rose  the  blithe  song  of  the  voyageurs  homeward  returning, 
And  thus,  as  they  glided  along,  sang  the  bugle-voiced  boatmen  in  chorus : 

SONG. 

Home  again!   home  again!   bend  to  the  oar! 

Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 

He  rides  on  the  river  with  his  paddle  in  his  hand, 

And  his  boat  is  his  shelter  on  the  water  and  the  land 

The  clam  has  his  shell  and  the  water-turtle  too, 

But  the  brave  boatmen's  shell  is  his  birch-bark  canoe. 

So  pull  away,  boatmen;  bend  to  the  oar; 

Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 

Home  again!   home  again!   bend  to  the  oar! 

Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 

His  couch  is  as  downy  as  a  couch  can  be, 

For  he  sleeps  on  the  feathers  of  the  green  fir-tree. 

He  dines  on  the  fat  of  the  pemmican-sack, 

And  his  eau  de  vie  is  the  eau  de  lac. 

So  pull  away,  boatmen;  bend  to  the  oar; 

*Spirit-River,  now  called  Rum  River.  tFire-arm — spirit-metal. 

**Lake  Superior — at  that  time  the  home  of  the  Ojibways  (Chippewas). 


WIN  ON  A  59 

Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 

Home  again!   home  again!   bend  to  the  oar! 
Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 
The  brave,  jolly  boatman, — he  never  is  afraid 
When  he  meets  at  the  portage  a  red,  forest  maid, 
A  Huron,  or  a  Cree,  or  a  blooming  Chippeway ; 
And  he  marks  his  trail  with  the  bois  brules.* 
So  pull  away,  boatmen;  bend  to  the  oar; 
Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 
Home  again!   home  again!   bend  to  the  oar! 
Merry  is  the  life  of  the  gay  voyageur. 

In  the  reeds  of  the  meadow  the  stag  lifts  his  branchy  head  stately  and  listens, 
And  the  bobolink,  perched  on  the  flag,  her  ear  sidelong  bends  to  the  chorus. 
From  the  brow  of  the  Beautiful  Isle.f  half  hid  in  the  midst  of  the  maples, 
The  sad-faced  Winona,  the  while,  watched  the  boat  growing  less  in  the  distance, 
Till  away  in  the  bend  of  the  stream,  where  it  turned  and  was  lost  in  the  lindens, 
She  saw  the  last  dip  and  the  gleam  of  the  oars  ere  they  vanished  forever. 
Still  afar  on  the  waters  the  song,  like  bridal  bells  distantly  chiming, 
'The  stout,  jolly  boatmen  prolong,  beating  time  with  the  stroke  of  their  paddles ; 
And  Winona's  ear,  turned  to  the  breeze,  lists  the  song  falling  fainter  andfainterf 
Till  it  dies  like  the  murmur  of  bees  when  the  sun  is  aslant  on  the  meadows. 
Blow,  breezes, — blow  softly  and  sing  in  the  dark,  flowing  hair  of  the  maiden; 
But  never  again  shall  you  bring  the  voice  that  she  loves  to  Winona. 

THE  CANOE  RACE. 

Now  a  light  rustling  wind  from  the  South  shakes  his  wings  o'er  the  wide,  wimp- 
ling  waters : 

Up  the  dark-winding  river  DuLuth  follows  fast  in  the  wake  of  Tamdoka. 

On  the  slopes  of  the  emerald  shores  leafy  woodlands  and  prairies  alternate ; 

On  the  vine-tangled  islands  the  flowers  peep  timidly  out  at  the  white  men; 

In  the  dark-winding  eddy  the  loon  sits  warily  watching  and  voiceless, 

And  the  wild-goose,  in  reedy  lagoon,  stills  the  prattle  and  play  of  her  children. 

The  does  and  their  sleek,  dappled  fawns  prick  their  ears  and  peer  out  from  the 
thickets, 

And  the  bison-calves  play  on  the  lawns,  and  gambol  like  colts  in  the  clover. 

Up  the  still-flowing  Wdkpa  Wakdn's**  winding  path  through  the  groves  and  the 
meadows, 

""Burnt  woods" — half-breeds. 

•\Wita  Waste — "Beautiful  Island";   the  Dakota  name  for  Nicollet  Island. 


60  WIN  ON  A 

Now  DuLuth's  brawny  boatmen  pursue  the  swift-gliding  bark  of  Tamdoka; 
And  hardly  the  red  braves  out-do  the  stout,  steady  oars  of  the  white  men. 

Now  they  bend  to  their  oars  in  the  race — the  ten  tawny  braves  of  Tamdoka ; 
And  hard  on  their  heels  in  the  chase  ply  the  six  stalwart  oars  of  the  Frenchmen. 
In  the  stern  of  his  boat  sits  DuLuth;  in  the  stern  of  his  boat  sits  Tamd'jka, 
And  warily,  cheerily,  both  urge  the  oars  of  their  men  to  the  utmost. 
Far-stretching  away  to  the  eyes,  winding  blue  in  the  midst  of  the  meadows, 
As  a  necklet  of  sapphires  that  lies  unclaspt  in  the  lap  of  a  virgin, 
Here  asleep  in  the  lap  of  the  plain  lies  the  reed-bordered,  beautiful  river. 
Like  two  flying  coursers  that  strain,  on  the  track,  neck  and  neck  on  the  home 

stretch, 

With  nostrils  distended  and  mane  froth-flecked,  and  the  neck  and  the  shoulders, 
Each  urged  to  his  best  by  the  cry  and  the  whip  and  the  rein  of  his  rider, 
Now  they  skim  o'er  the  waters  and  fly,  side  by  side,  neck  and  neck,  through  the 

meadows. 

The  blue  heron  flaps  from  the  reeds,  and  away  wings  her  course  up  the  river: 
Straight  and  swift  is  her  flight  o'er  the  meads,  but  she  hardly  outstrips  the 

canoemen. 

See!   the  voyageurs  bend  to  their  oars  till  the  blue  veins  swell  out  on  their  fore 
heads  ; 
And  the  sweat  from  their  brawny  breasts  pours;   but  in  vain  their  Herculean 

labor ; 

For  the  oars  of  Tamdoka  are  ten,  and  but  six  are  the  oars  of  the  Frenchman, 
And  the  red  warriors'  burden  of  men  is  matched  by  the  voyageurs1  luggage. 
Side  by  side,  neck  and  neck,  for  a  mile,  still  they  strain  their  strong  arms  to  the 

utmost, 

Till  rounding  a  willowy  isle,  now  ahead  creeps  the  boat  of  Tamd6ka, 
And  the  neighboring   forests   profound,    and   the   far-stretching  plain  of  the 

meadows 
To  the  whoop  of  the  victors  resound,  while  the  panting  French  rest  on  their 

paddles. 

IN  CAMP. 

With  sable  wings  wide  o'er  the  land  night  sprinkles  the  dew  of  the  heavens ; 
And  hard  by  the  dark  river's  strand,  in  the  midst  of  a  tall,  somber  forest, 
TWTO  camp-fires  are  lighted  and  beam  on  the  trunks  and  the  arms  of  the  pine-trees. 
In  the  fitful  light  darkle  and  gleam  the  swarthy-hued  faces  around  them: 
And  one  is  the  camp  of  DuLuth,  and  the  other  the  camp  of  Tamdoka. 
But  few  are  the  jests  and  uncouth  of  the  voyageurs  over  their  supper, 
While  moody  and  silent  the  braves  round  their  fire  in  a  circle  sit  crouching ; 


WIN  ON  A  61 

And  low  is  the  whisper  of  leaves  and  the  sough  of  the  wind  in  the  pine- tops, 
And  low  is  the  long-winding  howl  of  the  lone  wolf  afar  in  the  forest ; 
But  shrill  is  the  hoot  of  the  owl,  like  a  bugle-blast  blown  in  the  branches, 
And  the  half-startled  voyageurs  scowl  at  the  sudden  and  saucy  intruder. 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  wolves  are  the  eyes  of  the  watchful  and  silent  Dakotas ; 
Like  the  face  of  the  moon  in  the  skies,  when  the  clouds  chase  each  other  across  it, 
Is  Tamdoka's  dark  face  in  the  light  of  the  nickering  flames  of  the  camp-fire. 
They  have  plotted  red  murder  by  night,  and  securely  contemplate  their  victims. 
But  wary  and  armed  to  the  teeth  are  the  resolute  Frenchmen,  and  ready, 
If  need  be,  to  grapple  with  death,  and  to  die  hand  to  hand  in  the  forest. 
Yet  skilled  in  the  arts  and  the  wiles  of  the  cunning  and  crafty  Algonkins,* 
They  cover  their  hearts  with  their  smiles,  and  hide  their  suspicion  of  evil. 
Round  their  low,  smouldering  fire,  feigning  sleep,  lie  the  watchful  and  wily 

Dakotas; 

But  DuLuth  and  his  voyageurs  heap  their  fire  that  shall  blaze  till  the  morning, 
Ere  they  lay  themselves  snugly  to  rest,  with  their  guns  at  their  sides  on  the 

blankets, 
As  if  there  were  none  to  molest  but  the  gray,  skulking  wolves  of  the  forest. 

'Tis  midnight.     The  rising  moon  gleams,  weird  and  still,  o'er  the  dusky  horizon; 
Through  the  hushed,  somber    forest    she    beams,  and  fitfully  gloams  on  the 

meadows ; 

And  a  dim,  glimmering  pathway  she  paves  on  the  dark,  silent  stretch  of  the  river. 
The  winds  are  asleep  in  the  caves — in  the  heart  of  the  far-away  mountains; 
And  here  on  the  meadows  and  there,  the  lazy  mists  gather  and  hover ; 
And  the  lights  of  the  Fen-Spirits72  flare  and  dance  on  the  low-lying  marshes, 
As  still  as  the  footsteps  of  death  by  the  bed  of  the  babe  and  its  mother; 
And  hushed  are  the  pines,  and  beneath  lie  the  weary-limbed  boatmen  in  slumber. 
Walk  softly, — walk  softly,  O  Moon,  through  the  gray,  broken  clouds  in  thy 

pathway, 

For  the  earth  lies  asleep  and  the  boon  of  repose  is  bestowed  on  the  weary. 
Toiling  hands  have  forgotten  their  care;    e'en  the  brooks  have  forgotten  to 

murmur ; 

But  hark! — there's  a  sound  on  the  air! — 'tis  the  light-rustling  robes  of  the  Spirits, 
Like  the  breath  of  the  night  in  the  leaves,  or  the  murmur  of  reeds  on  the  river, 
In  the  cool  of  the  mid-summer  eves,  when  the  blaze  of  the  day  has  descended. 
Low-crouching  and  shadowy  forms,  as  still  as  the  gray  morning's  footsteps, 
Creep  sly  as  the  serpent  that  chnrms,  on  her  nest  in  the  meadow,  the  plover; 
In  the  shadows  of  pine-trunks  they  creep,  but  their  panther-eyes  gleam  in  the 

fire-light, 

*Ojibways. 


62  WIN  ON  A 

As  they  peer  on  the  white-men  asleep,  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  on  their  blankets. 
In  each  swarthy  right  hand  a  knife;   in  the  left  hand,  the  bow  and  the  arrows! 
Brave  Frenchmen,  awake  to  the  strife! — or  you  sleep  in  the  forest  forever. 
Nay,  nearer  and  nearer  they  glide,  like  ghosts  on  the  field  of  their  battles, 
Till  close  on  the  sleepers,  they  bide  but  the  signal  of  death  from  Tamdoka. 
Still  the  sleepers  sleep  on.     Not  a  breath  stirs  the  leaves  of  the  awe-stricken 

forest ; 

The  hushed  air  is  heavy  with  death ;  like  the  footsteps  of  death  are  the  moments, 
"  7*Vu/"t — At  the  word,  with  a  bound,  to  their  feet  spring  the  vigilant  French 
men; 

And  the  depths  of  the  forest  resound  to  the  crack  and  the  roar  of  their  muskets; 
And  seven  writhing  forms  on  the  ground  clutch  the  earth.     From  the  pine-tops 

the  screech-owl 
Screams  and  flaps  his  wide  wings  in  affright,  and  plunges  away  through  the 

forest ; 
And  swift  on  the  wings  of  the  night  flee  the  dim,  phantom-forms  through  the 

darkness. 

Like  cabris*0  when  gray  wolves  pursue,  fled  the  four  yet  remaining  Dakotas ; 
Through  forest  and  fen-land  they  flew,  and  wild  terror  howled  on  their  footsteps- 
And  one  was  Tamd6ka.     DuLuth  through  the  night  sent  his  voice  like  a  trumpet : 
"Ye  are  Sons  of  UnkUhee,  forsooth!     Return  to  your  mothers,  ye  cowards!" 
His  shrill  voice  they  heard  as  they  fled,  but  only  the  echoes  made  answer. 
At  the  feet  of  the  brave  Frenchmen,  dead,  lay  seven  swarthy  Sons  of  Unktehee; 
And  there,  in  the  midst  of  the  slain,  they  found,  as  it  gleamed  in  the  fire-light, 
The  horn-handled  knife  from  the  Seine,  where  it  fell  from  the  hand  of  Tamdoka. 

In  the  gray  of  the  morn,  ere  the  sun  peeped  over  the  dewy  horizon, 
Their  journey  again  was  begun,  and  they  toiled  up  the  swift,  winding  river; 
And  many  a  shallow  they  passed  on  their  way  to  the  Lake  of  the  Spirits  ;* 
But  dauntless  they  reached  it  at  last,  and  found  Akee-pd-kee-tin'sJ  village, 
On  an  isle  in  the  midst  of  the  lake;   and  a  day  in  his  teepees  they  tarried. 
Of  the  deed  in  the  wilderness  spake,  to  the  brave  Chief,  the  frank-hearted  French 
man. 

A  generous  man  was  the  Chief,  and  a  friend  of  the  fearless  explorer ; 
And  dark  was  his  visage  with  grief  at  the  treacherous  act  of  the  warriors. 
"Brave  Wazf-kut6  is  a  man,  and  his  heart  is  as  clear  as  the  sunlight; 
But  the  head  of  a  treacherous  clan  and  a  snake-in- the-grass,  is  Tamd6ka," 
Said  the  chief;  and  he  promised  DuLuth,  on  the  word  of  a  friend  and  a  warrior, 
To  carry  the  pipe  and  the  truth  to  his  cousin,  the  chief  at  Kathaga; 

*Mille  Lacs. 

tFire! 

jSee  Hennepin's  account  of  "Aqui-pa-que-tin,"  and  his  village.     Shea's  Hennepin,  225. 


WIN  ON  A  63 

For  thrice  at  the  Tdnka  Med6  had  he  smoked  in  the  lodge  of  the  Frenchman ; 
And  thrice  had  he  carried  away  the  bountiful  gifts  of  the  trader. 

When  the  chief  could  no  longer  prevail  on  the  white  men  to  rest  in  his  teepees, 

He  guided  their  feet  on  the  trail  to  the  lakes  of  the  winding  Rice-River.* 

Now  on  speeds  the  light  bark  canoe,  through  the  lakes  to  the  broad  Gitchee 

Seebeetf 

And  up  the  great  river  they  row, — up  the  big  Sandy  Lake  and  Savanna ; 
And  down  through  the  meadows  they  go  to  the  river  of  blue  Gitchee-  Gumee.\ 
Still  onward  they  speed  to  the  Dalles — to  the  roar  of  the  white-rolling  rapids, 
Where  the  dark  river  tumbles  and  falls  down  the  ragged  ravine  of  the  mountains 
And  singing  his  wild  jubilee  to  the  low-moaning  pines  and  the  cedars, 
Rushes  on  to  the  unsalted  sea  o'er  the  ledges  upheaved  by  volcanoes. 
Their  luggage  the  voyageurs  bore  down  the  long,  winding  path  of  the  portage,  § 
While  they  mingled  their  song  with  the  roar  of  the  turbid  and  turbulent  waters. 
Down-wimpling  and  murmuring  there  'twixt  two  dewy  hills  winds  a  streamlet, 
Like  a  long,  flaxen  ringlet  of  hair  on  the  breast  of  a  maid  in  her  slumber. 

All  safe  at  the  foot  of  the  trail,  where  they  left  it,  they  found  their  felucca, 
And  soon  to  the  wind  spread  the  sail,  and  glided  at  ease  through  the  waters, 
Through  the  meadows  and  lakelets  and  forth,  round  the  point  stretching  south 

like  a  finger, 

From  the  pine-plumed  hills  on  the  north,  sloping  down  to  the  bay[and  the  lakeside. 
And  behold,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  a  cluster  of  Chippewa  wigwams, 
And  the  busy  squaws  plying  with  skill  their  nets  in  the  emerald  waters. 
Two  hundred  white  winters  and  more  have  fled  from  the  face  of  the  Summer 
Since  DuLuth  on  that  wild,  somber  shore,  in  the  unbroken  forest  primeval, 
From  the  midst  of  the  spruce  and  the  pines,  saw  the  smoke  of  the  wigwams  up- 
curling, 

Like  the  fumes  from  the  temples  and  shrines  of  the  Druids  of  old  in  their  forests. 
Ah,  little  he  dreamed  then,  forsooth,  that  a  city  would  stand  on  that  hill-side, 
And  bear  the  proud  name  of  DuLuth,  the  untiring  and  dauntless  explorer, — 
A  refuge  for  ships  from  the  storms,  and  for  men  from  the  bee-hives  of  Europe, 
Out-stretching  her  long,  iron  arms  o'er  an  empire  of  Saxons  and  Nor'men. 

The  swift  west-wind  sang  in  the  sails,  and  on  flew  the  boat  like  a  sea-gull, 

*Now  called  "Mud  River" — it  empties  into  the  Mississippi  at  Aitkin. 

t Gitchee  See-bee — Big  River — is  the  Ojibway  name  for  the  Mississippi,  which  is  a  corruption  of 
Gitchee  Seebee — as  Michigan  is  a  corruption  of  Gitchee  Gutnee — Great  Lake,  the  Ojibway  name  of 
Lake  Superior. 

JThe  Ojibways  call  the  St.  Louis  River  Gitchee- Gutnee  See-bee — Great  lake  River,  i.e.,  the  river 
of  the  Great  Lake  (Lake  Superior.) 

§The  route  of  DuLuth  above  described — from  the  mouth  of  the  Wild- Rice  (Mud)  River,  to  Lake 
Superior — was  for  centuries,  and  still  is,  the  Indians'  canoe-route.  I  have  walked  over  the  old 
portage  from  the  foot  of  the  Dalles  to  the  St.  Louis  above — trod  by  the  feet  of  half-breeds  and 
voyageurs  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  by  the  Indians  for  perhaps  a  thousand  years. 


64  WIN  ON  A 

By  the  green,  templed  hills  and  the  dales,  and  the  dark,  rugged  rocks  of  the 

North  Shore; 
For  the  course  of  the  brave  Frenchman  lay  to  his  fort  at  the   Gdh-mah-na-tek- 

wdhk,83 
By  the  shore  of  the  grand  Thunder  Bay,  where  the  gray  rocks  loom  up  into 

mountains; 
Where  the  Stone  Giant  sleeps  on  the  Cape,  and  the  god  of  the  storms  makes  the 

thunder,83 

And  the  Makinak™  lifts  his  huge  shape  from  the  breast  of  the  blue-rolling  waters. 
And  thence  to  the  south-westward  led  his  course  to  the  Holy  Ghost  Mission,84 
Where  the  Black  Robes,  the  brave  shepherds,  fed  their  wild  sheep  on  the  isle 

Wau-ga-bd-mc,M 

In  the  enchanting  Cha-quAm-e-gon  Bay  defended  by  all  the  Apostles;* 
And  thence,  by  the  Ke-we-naw,  lay  his  course  to  the  Mission  Sainte  Marie. f 
Now  the  waves  clap  their  myriad  hands,  and  streams  the  white  hair  of  the 

surges ; 
DuLuth  at  the  steady  helm  stands,  and  he  hums  as  he  bounds  o'er  the  billows: 

O  sweet  is  the  carol  of  bird, 

And  sweet  is  the  murmur  of  streams ; 

But  sweeter  the  voice  that  I  heard — 

In  the  night — in  the  midst  of  my  dreams. 

WINONA  AND  TA-TE-PSIN. 

Tis  the  moon  of  the  sere,  falling  leaves.  From  the  heads  of  the  maples  the  west- 
wind 

Plucks  the  red-and-gold  plumage  and  grieves  on  the  meads  for  the  rose  and  the 
lily; 

Their  brown  leaves  the  moaning  oaks  strew,  and  the  breezes  that  roam  on  the 
prairies, 

Low-whistling  and  wanton  pursue  the  down  of  the  silk-weed  and  thistle. 

All  sere  are  the  prairies  and  brown  in  the  glimmer  and  haze  of  the  Autumn; 

From  the  far  northern  marshes  flock  down,  by  thousands,  the  geese  and  the 
mallards. 

From  the  meadows  and  wide-prairied  plains,  for  their  long  southward  journey 
preparing, 

In  croaking  flocks  gather  the  cranes,  and  choose  with  loud  clamor  their  leaders. 

The  breath  of  the  evening  is  cold,  and  lurid  along  the  horizon 

*The  Apostle  Islands.  tAt  the  Sault  Ste.  Marie. 


WIN  ON  A  65 

The  flames  of  the  prairies  are  rolled,  on  the  somber  skies  flashing  their  torches. 
At  noontide  a  shimmer  of  gold  through  the  haze  pours  the  sun  from  his  pathway. 
The  wild-rice  is  gathered  and  ripe  on  the  moors  lie  the  scarlet  po-pdn-ka;* 
Michdbo®  is  smoking  his  pipe, — 'tis  the  soft,  dreamy  Indian  Summer, 
When  the  god  of  the  South3  as  he  flies  from  Waziya,  the  god  of  the  Winter, 
For  a  time  turns  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  backward  looks  over  his  shoulder. 

It  is  noon.     From  his  path  in  the  skies  the  red  sun  looks  down  on  Kathdga. 
Asleep  in  the  valley  it  lies,  for  the  swift  hunters  follow  the  bison. 
Ta-t6-psin,  the  aged  brave,  bends  as  he  walks  by  the  side  of  Winona; 
Her  arm  to  his  left  hand  she  lends,  and  he  feels  with  his  staff  for  the  pathway ; 
On  his  slow,  feeble  footsteps  attends  his  gray  dog,  the  watchful  WicMkaft 
For  blind  in  his  years  is  the  chief  of  a  fever  that  followed  the  Summer, 
And  the  days  of  Ta-te"-psin  are  brief.     Once  more  by  the  dark-rolling  river 
Sits  the  Chief  in  the  warm,  dreamy  haze  of  the  beautiful  Summer  in  Autumn ; 
And  the  faithful  dog  lovingly  lays  his  head  at  the  feet  of  his  master. 
On  a  dead,  withered  branch  sits  a  crow,  down-peering  askance  at  the  old  mar, 
O  n  the  marge  of  the  river  below  romp  the  nut-brown  and  merry- voiced  children ; 
And  the  dark  waters  silently  flow,  broad  and  deep,  to  the  plunge  of  the  Ha-Ha. 

By  his  side  sat  Winona.     He  laid  his  thin,  shriveled  hand  on  her  tresses. 
"Winona,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  "no  longer  thy  father  beholds  thee; 
But  he  feels  the  long  locks  of  thy  hair,  and  the  days  that  are  gone  are  remembered 
When  Sis6kat  sat  faithful  and  fair  in  the  lodge  of  swift-footed  Td-t6-psin. 
The  white  years  have  broken  my  spear ;  from  my  bow  they  have  taken  the  bow 

string ; 

But  once  on  the  trail  of  the  deer,  like  a  gray  wolf  from  sunrise  till  sunset, 
By  woodland  and  meadow  and  mere,  ran  the  feet  of  Ta-t6-psin  untiring. 
But  dim  are  the  days  that  are  gone,  and  darkly  around  me  they  wander, 
Like  the  pale,  misty  face  of  the  moon  when  she  walks  through  the  storm  of  the 

winter ; 

And  sadly  they  speak  in  my  ear.     I  have  looked  on  the  graves  of  my  kindred. 
The  Land  of  the  Spirits  is  near.     Death  walks  by  my  side  like  a  shadow. 
Now  open  thine  ear  to  my  voice,  and  thy  heart  to  the  wish  of  thy  father, 
And  long  will  Winona  rejoice  that  she  heeded  the  words  of  Ta-t6-psin. 
The  cold,  cruel  winter  is  near,  and  famine  will  sit  in  the  teepee. 
What  hunter  will  bring  me  the  deer,  or  the  flesh  of  the  bear  or  the  bison  ? 
For  my  kinsmen  before  me  have  gone;  they  hunt  in  the  land  of  the  shadows. 
In  my  old  age  forsaken,  alone,  must  I  die  in  my  teepee  of  hunger  ? 
Winona,  Tamdoka  can  make  my  empty  lodge  laugh  with  abundance; 

""Cranberries. 

tWee-chah-kah— literally— Faithful. 

JThe  Robin — the  name  of  Winona's  Mother. 


66  WINONA 

For  thy  aged  and  blind  father's  sake,  to  the  son  of  the  Chief  speak  the  promise; 

For  gladly  again  to  my  tee  will  the  bridal  gifts  come  for  my  daughter. 

A  fleet-footed  hunter  is  he,  and  the  good  spirits  feather  his  arrows; 

And  the  cold,  cruel  winter  will  be  a  feast-time  instead  of  a  famine.' ' 

"My  father,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  filial  and  full  of  compassion, 

"Would  the  heart  of  Ta-t6-psin  rejoice  at  the  death  of  Winona,  his  daughter? 

The  crafty  Tamdoka  I  hate.     Must  I  die  in  his  teepee  of  sorrow? 

For  I  love  the  White  Chief  and  I  wait  his  return  to  the  land  of  Dakotas. 

When  the  cold  winds  of  winter  return,  and  toss  the  white  robes  of  the  prairies, 

The  fire  of  the  White  Chief  will  burn  in  his  lodge  at  the  Meeting-of- Waters. 

Winona's  heart  followed  his  feet  far  away  to  theland  of  the  Morning, 

And  she  hears  in  her  slumber  his  sweet,  kindly  voice  call  the  name  of  Winona. 

My  father,  abide,  I  entreat,  the  return  of  the  brave  to  Katdhga. 

The  wild-rice  is  gathered,  the  meat  of  the  bison  is  stored  in  the  teepee; 

Till  the  Coon-Moon71  enough  and  to  spare;   and  if  then  the  white  warrior  return 

not, 

Winona  will  follow  the  bear  and  the  coon  to  their  dens  in  the  forest. 
She  is  strong ;  she  can  handle  the  spear;  she  can  bend  the  stout  bow  of  the  hunter; 
And  swift  on  the  trail  of  the  deer  will  she  run  o'er  the  snow  on  her  snow-shoes. 
Let  the  step-mother  sit  in  the  tee,  and  kindle  the  fire  for  my  father; 
And  the  cold,  cruel  winter  shall  be  a  feast-time  instead  of  a  famine." 
"The  White  Chief  will  never  return,"  half  angrily  muttered  Ta-t6-psin; 
His  lodge-fire  will  nevermore  burn  in  the  land  of  the  warriors  he  slaughtered. 
I  grieve,  for  my  daughter  has  said  that  she  loves  the  false  friend  of  her  kindred ; 
For  the  hands  of  the  White  Chief  are  red  with  the  blood  of  the  trustful  Dakotas." 

Then  warmly  Winona  replied,  "Tamdoka  himself  is  the  traitor, 

And  the  brave-hearted  stranger  had  died  by  his  treacherous  hand  in  the  forest, 

But  thy  daughter's  voice  bade  him  beware  of  the  sly  death  that  followed  his 

footsteps. 

The  words  of  Tamdoka  are  fair,  but  his  heart  is  the  den  of  the  serpents. 
When  the  braves  told  their  tale  like  a  bird  sang  the  heart  of  Winona  rejoicing, 
But  gladlier  still  had  she  heard  of  the  death  of  the  crafty  Tamdoka. 
The  Chief  will  return;  he  is  bold,  and  he  carries  the  fire  of  Wakinyan: 
To  our  people  the  truth  will  be  told,  and  Tamdoka  will  hide  like  a  coward." 
His  thin  locks  the  aged  brave  shook;   to  himself  half  inaudibly  muttered; 
To  Winona  no  answer  he  spoke, — only  moaned  he  "Micunksee!    Micunksee! 
In  my  old  age  forsaken  and  blind! —  Yun-he-he!   Micunksee!   Micunksee /"* 
And  Wichdka,  the  pitying  dog,  whined  as  he  looked  on  the  face  of  his  master. 

*Alas,  O  My  Daughter, — My  Daughter! 


WIN  ON  A  67 

FAMINE. 

Waziya  came  down  from  the  North — from  the  land  of  perpetual  winter: 
From  his  frost-covered  beard  issued  forth  the  sharp-biting,   shrill-whistling 

North-wind ; 
At  the  touch  of  his  breath  the  wide  earth  turned  to  stone,  and  the  lakes  and  the 

rivers : 

From  his  nostrils  the  white  vapors  rose,  and  they  covered  the  sky  like  a  blanket. 
Like  the  down  of  Magd*  fell  the  snows,  tossed  and  whirled  into  heaps  by  the 

North-wind. 

Then  the  blinding  storms  roared  on  the  plains,  like  the  simoons  on  sandy  Sahara; 
From  the  fangs  of  the  fierce  hurricanes  fled  the  elk  and  the  deer  and  the  bison. 
Ever  colder  and  colder  it  grew,  till  the  f roozen  ground  cracked  and  split  open ; 
And  harder  and  harder  it  blew,  till  the  hillocks  were  bare  as  the  boulders. 
To  the  southward  the  buffalos  fled,  and  the  white  rabbits  hid  in  their  burrows ; 
On  the  bare  sacred  mounds  of  the  dead  howled  the  gaunt,  hungry  wolves  in 

the  night-time. 
The  strong  hunters  crouched  in  their  tees;    by  the  lodge-fires  the  little  ones 

shivered ; 

And  the  Magic-Menf  danced  to  appease,  in  their  teepee,  the  wrath  of  Waziya; 
But  famine  and  fatal  disease,  like  phantoms,  crept  into  the  village. 
The  Hard  MoonJ  was  past,  but  the  moon  when  the  coons  make  their  trails  in 

the  forest§ 

Grew  colder  and  colder.     The  coon,  or  the  bear,  ventured  not  from  his  cover; 
For  the  cold,  cruel  Arctic  simoon  swept  the  earth  like  the  blast  of  a  furnace. 
In  the  tee  of  Ta-t6-psin  the  store  of  wild-rice  and  dried  meat  was  exhausted; 
And  Famine  crept  in  at  the  door,  and  sat  crouching  and  gaunt  by  the  lodge-fire. 
And  now  with  the  saddle  of  deer  and  the  gifts  came  the  crafty  Tamdoka; 
And  he  said,  "See — I  bring  you  good  cheer,  for  I  love  the  blind  Chief  and  his 

daughter. 

Take  the  gifts  of  Tamdoka,  for  dear  to  his  heart  is  the  dark-eyed  Winona." 
The  aged  Chief  opened  his  ears;   in  his  heart  he  already  consented: 
But  the  moans  of  his  child  and  her  tears  touched  the  age-softened  heart  of  the 

father, 

And  he  said,  "I  am  burdened  with  years, — I  am  bent  by  the  snows  of  my  winters ; 
Ta-te-psin  will  die  in  his  tee;  let  him  pass  to  the  Land  of  the  Spirits  ; 
But  Winona  is  young ;  she  is  free  and  her  own  heart  shall  choose  her  a  husband." 
The  dark  warrior  strode  from  the  tee;   low-muttering  and  grim  he  departed; 
"Let  him  die  in  his  lodge,"  muttered  he,  "but  Winona  shall  kindle  my  lodge-fire." 

Then  forth  went  Winona.     The  bow  of  Ta-t6-psin  she  took  and  his  arrows, 
*  Wild- goose.  fMedicine-men.  tJanuary.  §February. 


68  WIN  ON  A 

And  afar  o'er  the  deep,  drifted  snow  through  the  fo  restshe  sped  on  her  snow- 
shoes. 

Over  meadow  and  ice-covered  mere,  through  the  thickets  of  red-oak  and  hazel, 

She  followed  the  tracks  of  the  deer,  but  like  phantoms  they  fled  from  her  vision. 

From  sunrise  to  sunset  she  sped;   half  famished  she  camped  in  the  thicket; 

In  the  cold  snow  she  made  her  lone  bed;  on  the  buds  of  the  birch*  made  her 
supper. 

To  the  dim  moon  the  gray  owl  preferred,  from  the  tree-top,  his  shrill  lamentation, 

And  around  her  at  midnight  she  heard  the  dread  famine-cries  of  the  gray  wolves. 

In  the  gloam  of  the  morning  again  on  the  trail  of  the  red-deer  she  followed — 

All  day  long  through  the  thickets  in  vain,  for  the  gaunt  wolves  were  chasing 
them  also; 

And  the  cold,  hungry  winds  from  the  plain  chased  the  wolves  and  the  deer  and 
Winona. 

In  the  twilight  of  sundown  she  sat  in  the  forest,  all  weak  and  despairing ; 

Ta-t6-psin's  bow  lay  at  her  feet,  and  his  otter-skin  quiver  of  arrows. 

"He  promised, — he  promised,"  she  said, — half-dreamily  uttered  and  mournful — 

"And  why  comes  he  not?     Is  he  dead?     Was  he  slain  by  the  crafty  Tamdoka  ? 

Must  Winona,  alas,  make  her  choice — make  her  choice  between  death  and 
Tamdoka  ? 

She  will  die,  but  her  soul  will  rejoice  in  the  far  Summer-land  of  the  spirits. 

Hark!    I  hear  his  low,  musical  voice!   he  is  coming!    My  White  Chief  is  coming! 

Ah,  no;  I  am  half  in  a  dream! — 'twas  the  memory  of  days  long  departed; 

But  the  birds  of  the  green  Summer  seem  to  be  singing  above  in  the  branches." 

Then  forth  from  her  bosom  she  drew  the  crucified  Jesus  in  silver: 

In  her  dark  hair  the  cold  north-wind  blew,  as  meekly  she  bent  o'er  the  image. 

"O  Christ  of  the  Whiteman,"  she  prayed,  "lead  the  feet  of  my  brave  to  Kathdga; 

Send  a  good  spirit  down  to  my  aid,  or  the  friend  of  the  White  Chief  will  perish." 

Then  a  smile  on  her  wan  features  played,  and  she  lifted  her  pale  face  and  chanted : 

"E-ye-he-kta"!    E-ye-he-kta"! 
H6-kta-ce;  6-ye-ce-quon. 
Mi-Wanmdee-skci,  he-he-ktd; 
He-kta-ce;   e"-ye-ce-qu6n, 
Mi-Wanmdee-skci." 

(Translation.) 

He  will  come;  he  will  come; 
He  will  come,  for  he  promised. 
My  White  Eagle,  he  will  come; 

*The  pheasant  feeds  on  birch-buds  in  winter.     Indians  eat  them  when  very  hungry. 


WIN  ON  A  69 

.<*• 

He  will  come,  for  he  promised — 
My  White  Eagle. 

Thus  sadly  she  chanted,  and  lo — allured  by  her  sorrowful  accents — 
From  the  dark  covert  crept  a  red  doe  and  wonderingly  gazed  on  Winona. 
Then  swift  caught  the  huntress  her  bow;  from  her  trembling  hand  hummed  the 

keen  arrow; 

Up-leaped  the  tahinca\  and  fled,  but  the  white  snow  was  sprinkled  with  scarlet, 
And  it  fell  in  the  oak  thicket  dead.     On  the  trail  ran  the  eager  Winona. 
Half -famished  the  raw  flesh  she  ate.     To  the  hungry  maid  sweet  was  her  supper. 
Then  swift  through  the  night  ran  her  feet,  and  she  trailed  the  tahinca  behind  her ; 
And  the  guide  of  her  steps  was  a  star — the  cold-glinting  star  of  Waziya* — 
Over  meadow  and  hilltop  afar,  on  the  way  to  the  lodge  of  her  father. 
But  hark!    on  the  keen  frosty  air  wind  the  shrill  hunger-howls  of  the  gray- 
wolves  ! 

And  nearer, — still  nearer! — the  blood  of  the  deer  have  they  scented  and  follow; 
Through  the  thicket,  the  meadow,  the  wood,  dash  the  pack  on  the  trail  of  Winona. 
Swift  she  speeds  with  her  burden,  but  swift  on  her  track  fly  the  minions  of 

famine ; 

Now  they  yell  on  the  view  from  the  drift,  in  the  reeds  at  the  marge  of  the  meadow ; 
Red  gleam  their  wild,  ravenous  eyes,  for  they  see  on  the  hill-side  their  supper; 
The  dark  forest  echoes  their  cries,  but  her  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  warrior. 
From  its  sheath  snatched  Winona  her  knife,  and  a  leg  from  the  red  deer  she 

severed ; 

With  the  carcass  she  ran  for  her  life, — to  a  low-branching  oak  ran  the  maiden ; 
Round  the  deer's  neck  her  head-strap!  was  tied;  swift  she  sprang  to  the  arms 

of  the  oak-tree; 

Quick  her  burden  she  drew  to  her  side,  and  higher  she  clomb  on  the  branches, 
While  the  maddened  wolves  battled  and  bled,  dealing  death  o'er  the  leg  to  each 

other ; 

Their  keen  fangs  devouring  the  dead, — yea,  devouring  the  flesh  of  the  living. 
They  raved  and  they  gnashed  and  they  growled,  like  the  fiends  in  the  regions 

infernal ; 
The  wide  night  re-echoing  howled,  and  the'^hoarse  North- wind  laughed  at  the 

slaughter. 

But  their  ravenous  maws  unappeased  by  the  blood  and  the  flesh  of  their  fellows. 
To  the  cold  wind  their  muzzles  they  raised,  and  the  trail  to  the  oak-tree  they 

followed. 
Round  and  round  it  they  howled  for  the  prey,  madly  leaping  and  snarling  and 

snapping ; 

*Waziya's  Star  is  the  North-star.  fDeer. 

JA  strap  used  in  carrying  burdens. 


70  WIN  ON  A 

But  the  brave  maiden's  keen  arrows  slay,  till  the  dead  number  more  than  the 

living. 

All  the  long,  dreary  night-time,  at  bay,  in  the  oak  sat  the  shivering  Winona; 
But  the  sun  gleamed  at  last,  and  away  skulked  the  gray  cowards*  down  through 

the  forest. 
Then  down  dropped  the  deer  and  the  maid.     Ere  the  sun  reached  the  midst  of 

his  journey, 
Her  red,  welcome  burden  she  laid  at  the  feet  of  her  famishing  father. 

Waziya's  wild  wrath  was  appeased,  and  homeward  he  turned  to  his  teepee,3 
O'er  the  plains  and  the  forest-land  breezed  from  the  Islands  of  Summer  the 

South-wind. 
From  their  dens  came  the  coon  and  the  bear ;  in  the  snow  through  the  woodlands 

they  wandered; 
On  her  snow-shoes  with  stout  bow  and  spear  on  their  trails  ran  the  huntress 

Winona. 

The  coon  to  his  nest  in  the  tree,  and  the  bear  to  his  burrow  she  followed; 
A  brave,  skillful  hunter  was  she,  and  Ta-t6-psin's  lodge  laughed  with  abundance. 

DEATH  OF  TA-TE-PSIN. 

The  long  winter  wanes.     On  the  wings  of  the  spring  come  the  geese  and  the 

mallards ; 
On  the  bare  oak  the  bobolink  sings,  the  croci  peep  out  of  the  prairies, 

And  the  bugle-loon  pipes,  but  he  brings  of  the  blue-eyed,  brave  White  Chief  no 
tidings. 

With  the  waning  of  winter,  alas,  waned  the  life  of  the  aged  Ta-t6-psin; 

Ere  the  wild  pansies  peeped  from  the  grass,  to  the  Land  of  the  Spirits  he  jour 
neyed  ; 

Like  a  babe  in  its  slumber  he  passed,  or  the  snow  from  the  hill- tops  of  April; 

And  the  dark-eyed  Winona,  at  last,  stood  alone  by  the  graves  of  her  kindred. 

When  their  myriad  mouths  opened  the  trees  to  the  sweet  dew  of  heaven  and 
the  raindrops, 

And  the  April  showers  fell  on  the  leas,  on  his  mound  fell  the  tears  of  Winona. 

Round  her  drooping  form  gathered  the  years  and  the  spirits  unseen  of  her  kin 
dred, 

As  low,  in  the  midst  of  her  tears,  at  the  grave  of  her  father  she  chanted: 

E-yo-tan-han  e-yay-wah-k£-yay! 
E-yo-tan-han  e-yay-wah-ke"-yay! 

*Wolves  in  packs  sometimes  attack  people  at  night,  but  rarely,  if  ever,  in  the  daytime.      If  they 
have  followed  a  hunter  all  night,  and  "treed"  him,  they  will  skulk  away  as  soon  as  the  sun  rises. 


WIN  ON  A  71 

E-yo-tan-han  e-yay-wah-ke"-yay! 
Ma-ka"h  kin  hay-chay-dan  tdy-han  wan-kay. 
Tu-way  ne  ktay  snee  e-yay-chen  e-wdh  chay. 

E-y6-tan-han  e-yay-wah-ke"-yay! 

E-yo-tan-han  e-yay-wah-ke-yay ! 
Ma-kah  kin  hay-chay-dan  tay-han  wan-kay. 

(Translation). 

Sore  is  my  sorrow! 

Sore  is  my  sorrow! 

Sore  is  my  sorrow! 
The  earth  alone  lasts. 
I  speak  as  one  dying; 

Sore  is  my  sorrow! 

Sore  is  my  sorrow! 
The  earth  alone  lasts. 

Still  hope,  like  a  star  in  the  night  gleaming  oft  through  the  broken  clouds  somber 

Cheered  the  heart  of  Winona,  and  bright  on  her  dreams  beamed  the  face  of  the 
Frenchman.  * 

As  she  thought  of  a  loved  one  and  lost,  sad  and  sweet  were  her  thoughts  of  the 
White  Chief; 

In  the  moon's  mellow  light,  like  a  ghost,  walked  Winona  alone  by  the  Ha-Ha, 

Ever  wrapped  in  a  dream.     Far  away — to  the  land  of  the  sunrise — she  wandered ; 

On  the  blue-rolling  Tanka-Mede*  in  the  midst  of  her  dreams,  she  beheld  him — 

In  his  white-winged  canoe,  like  a  bird,  to  the  land  of  Dakotas  returning ; 

And  often  in  fancy  she  heard  the  dip  of  his  oars  on  the  river.     <     : 

On  the  dark  waters  glimmered  the  moon,  but  she  saw  not  the  boat  of  the  French 
man. 

On  the  somber  night  bugled  the  loon,  but  she  heard  not  the  song  of  the  boatmen. 

The  moon  waxed  and  waned,  but  the  star  of  her  hope  never  waned  to  the  setting ; 

Through  her  tears  she  beheld  it  afar,  like  a  torch  on  the  eastern  horizon. 

"He  will  come, — he  is  coming,"  she  said;  "he  will  come,  for  my  White  Eagle 
promised," 

And  low  to  the  bare  earth  the  maid  bent  her  ear  for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps, 

"He  is  gone,  but  his  voice  in  my  ear  still  remains  like  the  voice  of  the  robin; 

He  is  far,  but  his  footsteps  I  hear;   he  is  coming;   my  White  Chief  is  coming!" 

But  the  moon  waxed  and  waned.  Nevermore  will  the  eyes  of  Winona  behold 
him. 

Far  away  on  the  dark,  rugged  shore  of  the  blue  Gitchee  Gumee  he  lingers. 

No  tidings  the  rising  sun  brings ;   no  tidings  the  star  of  the  evening ; 

*Lake  Superior, — The  Gitchee  Gurnet  of  the  Chippewas. 


72  WIN  ON  A 

But  morning  and  evening  she  sings,  like  a  turtle-dove  widowed  and  waiting: 

Ak6  u,  ak6  u,  ak6  u,  Come  again,  come  again,  come  again, 

Mi-Wanmdee-ska;  My  White  Eagle; 

Ma  cante  mas6ca.  For  my  heart  is  sad. 

Ak6  u,  ak6  u,  ak6  u;  Come  again,  come  again,  come  again; 

Ma  cant£  maseca,  For  my  heart  is  sad, 

Mi-Wanmdee-ska.  My  White  Eagle. 

DEATH  OF  WINONA. 

Down  the  broad  Ha-Ha  Wdk-pa*  the  band  took  their  way  to  the  Games  at 

Kedza,* 

While  the  swift-footed  hunters  by  land  ran  the  shores  for  the  elk  and  the  bison, 
Like  wagdsf  ride  the  birch-bark  canoes  on  the  breast  of  the  dark,  winding  river : 
By  the  willow-fringed  island  they  cruise,  by  the  grassy  hills  green  to  the 

summits ; 

By  the  lofty  bluffs  hooded  with  oaks  that  darken  the  deep  with  their  shadows; 
And  bright  in  the  sun  gleam  the  strokes  of  the  oars  in  the  hands  of  the  women. 
With  the  band  went  Winona.     The  oar  plied  the  maid  with  the  skill  of  a  hunter . 
They  tarried  a  time  on  the  shore  of  Remnica — the  Lake  of  the  Mountains. 
There  the  fleet  hunters  followed  the  deer,  and  the  thorny  pahin\  for  the  women- 
From  the  tees  rose  the  smoke  of  good  cheer,  curling  blue  through  the  tops  of  the 

maples. 

Near  the  foot  of  a  cliff  that  arose,  like  the  battle-scarred  walls  of  a  castle, 
Up-towering,  in  rugged  repose,  to  a  dizzy  height  over  the  waters. 

But  the  man-wolf  still  followed  his  prey,  and  the  step-mother  ruled  in  the  teepee; 
Her  will  must  Winona  obey,  by  the  custom  and  law  of  Dakotas. 
The  gifts  to  the  teepee  were  brought — the  blankets  and  beads  of  the  White  men, 
And  Winona,  the  orphaned,  was  bought  by  the  crafty,  relentless  Tamdoka. 
In  the  Spring-time  of  life,  in  the  flush  of  the  gladsome  mid-May  days  of  Summer, 
When  the  bobolink  sang  and  the  thrush,  and  the  red  robin  chirped  in  the  branches, 
To  the  tent  of  the  brave  she  must  go ;  she  must  kindle  the  fire  in  his  teepee; 
She  must  sit  in  the  lodge  of  her  foe,  as  a  slave  at  the  feet  of  her  master. 
Alas  for  her  waiting!   the  wings  of  the  East-wind  have  brought  her  no  tidings; 
On  the  meadow  the  meadow-lark  sings,  but  sad  is  her  song  to  Winona, 
For  the  glad  warbler's  melody  brings  but  the  memory  of  voices  departed. 
The  Day-Spirit  walked  in  the  west  to  his  lodge  in  the  land  of  the  shadows; 

*The  Dakota  name  for  the  Mississippi;   see  note  76  in  Appendix. 
tWild  Geese. 

jLake  Pepin;  by  Hennepin  called  Lake  of  Tears — Called  by  the  Dakotas  Remnee-chah-Mday — 
Lake  of  the  Mountains. 

$Pah-hin — the  porcupine — the  quills  of  which  are  greatly  prized  for  ornamental  work. 


WIN  ON  A  73 

His  shining  face  gleamed  on  the  crest  of  the  oak-hooded  hills  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  meadow-lark  hied  to  her  nest,  and  the  mottled  owl  peeped  from  her 

cover. 

But  hark!   from  the  teepees  a  cry!   Hear  the  shouts  of  the  hurrying  warriors! 
Are  the  feet  of  the  enemy  nigh — of  the  crafty  and  cruel  O  jib  ways? 
Nay;  look! — on  the  dizzy  cliff  high — on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  stands  Winona! 
Her  sad  face  up-turned  to  the  sky.     Hark!  I  hear  the  wild  wail  of  her  death-song: 

"My  Father's  Spirit,  look  down,  look  down — 
From  your  hunting-grounds  in  the  shining  skies; 
Behold,  for  the  light  of  my  heart  is  gone; 
The  light  is  gone  and  Winona  dies. 

I  looked  to  the  East,  but  I  saw  no  star; 
The  face  of  my  White  Chief  was  turned  away. 
I  harked  for  his  footsteps  in  vain;   afar 
His  bark  sailed  over  the  Sunrise-sea. 

Long  have  I  watched  till  my  heart  is  cold; 
In  my  breast  it  is  heavy  and  cold  as  a  stone. 
No  more  shall  Winona  his  face  behold, 
And  the  robin  that  sang  in  her  heart  is  gone. 

My  Father's  Spirit,  look  down,  look  down — 
From  your  hunting-grounds  in  the  shining  skies; 
Behold,  for  the  light  in  my  heart  is  gone ; 
The  light  is  gone  and  Winona  dies." 

Swift  the  strong  hunters  climbed  as  she  sang,  and  the  foremost  of  all  was  Tam- 
d6ka; 

From  crag  to  crag  upward  he  sprang;   like  a  panther  he  leaped  to  the  summit. 
Too  late! — on  the  brave  as  he  came  turned  the  maid  in  her  scorn  and  defiance; 
Then  swift  from  the  dizzy  height  leaped.     Like  a  brant  arrow-pierced  in  mid- 
heaven, 

Down  whirling  and  fluttering  she  fell,  and  headlong  plunged  into  the  waters. 
Forever  she  sank  mid  the  wail,  and  the  wild  lamentation  of  women. 
Her  lone  spirit  evermore  dwells  in  the  depths  of  the  Lake  of  the  Mountains,* 
And  Maiden  Rock  evermore  tells  to  the  years  as  they  pass  her  sad  story. f 

In  the  silence  of  sorrow  the  night  o'er  the  earth  spread  her  wide,  sable  pinions; 

*Lake  Pepin. 

tThe  Dakotas  say  that  the  spirit  of  Winona  forever  haunts  the  lake.  They  say  that  it  was  many 
many  winters  ago  when  Winona  leaped  from  the  rock, — that  the  rock  was  then  perpendicular  to 
the  water's  edge  and  she  leaped  into  the  lake,  but  now  the  rock  has  partly  crumbled  down  and  the 
waters  have  also  receded,  so  that  they  do  not  now  reach  the  foot  of  the  perpendicular  rock  as  of  old. 


74  i  WIN  ON  A 

And  the  stars18  hid  their  faces;  and  light  on  the  lake  fell  the  tears  of  the  spirits. 
As  her  sad  sisters  watched  on  the  shore  for  her  spirit  to  rise  from  the  waters, 
They  heard  the  swift  dip  of  an  oar,  and  a  boat  they  beheld  like  a  shadow, 
Gliding  down  through  the  night  in  the  gray,  gloaming  mists  on  the  face  of  the 

waters. 
'Twas  the  bark  of  DuLuth  on  his  way  to  rescue  the  orphaned  Winona. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  FALLS* 


[Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Old  Settlers  of  Hennepin  County,  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  Minne 
apolis,  July  4,  1879J 

[Th«  Numtrals  refer  to  Notes  in  Appendix.] 

On  the  Spirit-Islandf  sitting  under  midnight's  misty  moon, 
I  can  see  the  spirits  flitting  o'er  the  waters  one  by  one! 
Slumber  wraps  the  silent  city,  and  the  droning  mills  are  dumb; 
One  lone  whippowil's  shrill  ditty  calls  her  mate  that  ne'er  will  come. 
Sadly  moans  the  mighty  river,  foaming  down  the  fettered  falls, 
Where  of  old  he  thundered  ever  o'er  abrupt  and  lofty  walls. 
Great  Unkt£hee™ — god  of  waters — lifts  no  more  his  mighty  head ; 
Fled  he  with  the  timid  otters? — lies  he  in  the  cavern  dead? 
Hark! — the  waters  hush  their  sighing  and  the  whippowil  her  call, 
Through  the  moon-lit  mists  are  flying  dusky  shadows  silent  all; 
And  from  out  the  waters  foaming — from  the  cavern  deep  and  dread — 
Through  the  glamour  and  the  gloaming  comes  a  spirit  of  the  dead. 
Sad  she  seems;  her  tresses  raven  on  her  tawny  shoulders  rest; 
Sorrow  on  her  brow  is  graven,  in  her  arms  a  babe  is  pressed. 
Hark! — she  chants  the  solemn  story — sings  the  legend  sad  and  old, 
And  the  river  wrapt  in  glory  listens  while  the  tale  is  told. 
Would  you  hear  the  legend  olden  hearken  while  I  tell  the  tale — 
Shorn,  alas,  of  many  a  golden,  weird  Dakota  chant  and  wail. 

*An-p«-tu  Sa-pa — Clouded  Day — was  the  name  of  the  Dakota  mother  who  committed  suicide, 
as  related  in  this  legend,  by  plunging  over  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony.  Schoolcraft  calls  her  "Am- 
pata  Sapa."  Ampaia  is  not  Dakota.  There  are  several  versions  of  this  legend,  all  agreeing  in  the 
main  points. 

tThe  small  island  of  rock  a  few  rods  below  the  Falls,  was  called  by  the  Dakotas  Wanaget  We-ta 
— Spirit-Island.  They  say  the  spirit  of  Anpftu  Sapa  sits  upon  that  island  at  night  and  pours  forth 
her  sorrow  in  song.  They  also  say  that  from  time  out  of  mind,  war-eagles  nested  on  that  island 
until  the  advent  of  white  men  frightened  them  away.  This  seems  to  be  true.  See  Carver's  Travels 
(London,  1778),  p.  71. 

75 


76  THE   LEGEND    OF    THE    FALLS 

THE    LEGEND 

Tall  was  young  Wanata,  stronger  than  Heyoka's10  giant  form, — 
Laughed  at  flood  and  fire  and  hunger,  faced  the  fiercest  winter  storm. 
When  Wakinyan*2  flashed  and  thundered,  when  Unktehee  raved  and 

roared, 

All  but  brave  Wanata  wondered,  and  the  gods  with  fear  implored. 
When  the  war-whoop  shrill  resounded,  calling  friends  to  meet  the  foe, 
From  the  teepee  swift  he  bounded,  armed  with  polished  lance  and  bow. 
In  the  battle's  din  and  clangor  fast  his  fatal  arrows  flew, 
Flashed  his  fiery  eyes  with  anger, — many  a  stealthy  foe  he  slew. 
Hunter  swift  was  he  and  cunning,  caught  the  beaver,  slew  the  bear, 
Overtook  the  red-deer  running,  dragged  old  bruin  from  his  lair. 
Loved  was  he  by  many  a  maiden ;  many  a  dark  eye  glanced  in  vain ; 
Many  a  heart  with  sighs  was  laden  for  the  love  it  could  not  gain. 
So  they  called  the  brave  "Ska  Cdpa;"*  but  the  fairest  of  the  band — 
Moon-faced,  meek  Anpe"tu-Sapa — won  the  hunter's  heart  and  hand. 

From  the  wars  with  triumph  burning,   from  the  chase  of  bison  fleet, 

To  his  lodge  the  brave  returning,  laid  his  trophies  at  her  feet. 

Love  and  joy  sat  in  the  teepee;  him  a  black-eyed  boy  she  bore; 

But  alas,  she  lived  to  weep  a  love  she  lost  forevermore. 

For  the  warriors  chose  Wanata  first  Itdncan^  of  the  band. 

At  the  council-fire  he  sat  a  leader  bold,  a  chieftain  grand. 

Proud  was  fair  Anp6tu-Sapa,  and  her  eyes  were  glad  with  joy; 

Proud  was  she  and  very  happy  with  her  warrior  and  her  boy. 

But  alas,  the  fatal  honor  that  her  brave  Wanata  won, 

Brought  a  bitter  woe  upon  her, — hid  with  clouds  the  summer  sun. 

For  among  the  brave  Dakotas  wives  bring  honor  to  the  chief. 

On  the  vine-clad  Minnesota's  banks  he  met  the  Scarlet  Leaf. 

Young  and  fair  was  Ape-dutaJ — full  of  craft  and  very  fair; 

Proud  she  walked  a  queen  of  beauty  with  her  black,  abundant  hair. 

*Or  Capa  Ska — White  Beaver.     White  beavers  are  very  rare,  very  cunning  and  hard  to  catch. 

t  E-tan-can — Chief. 

lA-pt— leaf,— duta— Scarlet,— Scarlet  leaf. 


THE   LEGEND    OF    THE   FALLS  77 

In  her  net  of  hair  she  caught  him — caught  Wanata  with  her  wiles; 

All  in  vain  his  wife  besought  him — begged  in  vain  his  wonted  smiles. 

Ape-dtita  ruled  the  teepee — all  Wanata's  smiles  were  hers; 

When  the  lodge  was  wrapped  in  sleep  a  star*  beheld  the  mother's  tears. 

Long  she  strove  to  do  her  duty  for  the  black-eyed  babe  she  bore; 

But  the  proud,  imperious  beauty  made  her  sad  forevermore. 

Still  she  dressed  the  skins  of  beaver,  bore  the  burdens,  spread  the  fare ; 

Patient  ever,  murmuring  never,  though  her  cheeks  were  creased  with 

care. 

In  the  moon  Magd-o-Kdda,71  twice  an  hundred  years  ago — 
Ere  the  "Black  Robe's  "f  sacred  shadow  trailed  the  prairies' pathless 

snow — 

Down  the  swollen,  rushing  river,  in  the  sunset's  golden  hues, 
From  the  hunt  of  bear  and  beaver  came  the  band  in  birch  canoes. 
On  the  queen  of  fairy  islands,  on  the  Wita  Waste  s%  shore 
Camped  Wanata,  on  the  highlands  just  above  the  cataract's  roar. 
Many  braves  were  with  Wanata;   Ape-duta,  too,  was  there, 
And  the  sad  Anp£tu-sapa  spread  the  lodge  with  wonted  care. 
Then  above  the  leafless  prairie  leaped  the  fat-faced,  laughing  moon, 
And  the  stars — the  spirits  fairy — walked  the  welkin  one  by  one. 

Swift  and  silent  in  the  gloaming  on  the  waste  of  waters  blue, 
Speeding  downward  to  the  foaming,  shot  Wanata's  birch  canoe. 
In  it  stood  Anpe'tu-sapa — in  her  arms  her  sleeping  child; 
Like  a  wailing  Norse-land  drapa§  rose  her  death-song  weird  and  wild : 

Mihihna,  Mikiknajl  my  heart  is  stone; 

The  light  is  gone  from  my  longing  eyes; 
The  wounded  loon  in  the  lake  alone 

Her  death-song  sings  to  the  moon  and  dies. 

*Stars,  the  Dakotas  say,  are  the  faces  of  the  departed  watching  over  their  friends  and  relatives 
on  earth. 

t  The  Dakotas  called  the  Jesuit  priests  "Black  Robes,"  from  the  color  of  their  vestments 

1  Wee-tah  Wah-stay— Beautiful  Island,— the  Dakota  name  for  Nicollet  Island,  just  above  the 

§  Drapa,  a  Norse  funeral  wail  in  whkh  the  virtues  of  the  deceased  are  recounted. 
1  Met-heen-yah — My  husband. 


78  THE   LEGEND    OF    THE    FALLS 

Mihihna,  Mihihna,  my  young  heart  flew 
Far  away  with  my  brave  to  the  bison-chase; 

To  the  battle  it  went  with  my  warrior  true, 
And  never  returned  till  I  saw  his  face. 

Mihihna,  Mihihna,  my  brave  was  glad 

When  he  came  from  the  chase  of  the  red-deer  fleet; 

Sweet  were  the  words  that  my  hunter  said 
As  his  trophies  he  laid  at  Anpe"tu's  feet. 

Mihihna,  Mihihna,  the  Scarlet  Leaf 
Has  robbed  my  boy  of  his  father's  love; 

He  sleeps  in  my  arms — he  will  find  no  grief 
In  the  star-lit  lodge  in  the  land  above. 

Mihihna,  Mihihna,  my  heart  is  stone; 

The  light  is  gone  from  my  longing  eyes; 
The  wounded  loon  in  the  lake  alone 

Her  death-song  sings  to  the  moon  and  dies. 

Swiftly  down  the  turbid  torrent,  as  she  sung  her  song  she  flew; 
Like  a  swan  upon  the  current,  dancing  rode  the  light  canoe. 
Hunters  hurry  in  the  gloaming;   all  in  vain  Wanata  calls; 
Singing  through  the  surges  foaming  lo  she  plunges  o'er  the  Falls. 

Long  they  searched  the  sullen  river — searched  for  leagues  along  the 

shore, 

Bark  or  babe  or  mother  never  saw  the  sad  Dakotas  more; 
But  at  night  or  misty  morning  oft  the  hunters  heard  her  song, 
Oft  the  maidens  heard  her  warning  in  their  mellow  mother-tongue. 
On  the  bluffs  they  sat  enchanted  till  the  blush  of  beamy  dawn ; 
Spirit  Isle,  they  say,  is  haunted,  and  they  call  the  spot  Wakdn* 
Many  summers  on  the  highland  in  the  full  moon's  golden  glow — 
In  the  woods  on  Fairy  Island,!  walked  a  snow-white  fawn  and  doe— 

*Pronounced  Walk-on, — Sacred,  inhabited  by  a  spirit, 
t Fairy  Island,— Wita-Waste—Nicollet  Island. 


THE   LEGEND    OF    THE   FALLS  79 

Spirits  of  the  babe  and  mother  sadly  seeking  by  the  shore 
For  Wanata's  love  another  turned  away  forevermore. 

Sometimes  still  when  moonbeams  shimmer  through  the  maples  on  the 

lawn, 

In  the  gloaming  and  the  glimmer  walk  the  silent  doe  and  fawn ; 
And  on  Spirit  Isle  or  near  it,  under  midnight's  misty  moon, 
Oft  is  seen  the  mother's  spirit,  oft  is  heard  her  mournful  tune. 


THE  SEA-GULL.1 

THE    LEGEND    OF   THE    PICTURED    ROCKS    OF   LAKE    SUPERIOR.       OJIBWAY 

In  the  measure  of  Hiawatha. 
[.The  numerals  refer  to  Notes  to  The  Sea-Gull,  in  Appendix.] 

On  the  shore  of  Gitchee  Gumee2 — 
Deep,  mysterious,  mighty  waters — 
Where  the  manitoes — the  spirits — 
Ride  the  storms  and  speak  in  thunder, 
In  the  days  of  Ne"me-Sh6mis,s 
In  the  days  that  are  forgotten, 
Dwelt  a  tall  and  tawny  hunter — 
Gitchee  P£z-ze-u — the  Panther, 
Son  of  Waub-Ojeeg,4  the  warrior, 
Famous  Waub-Ojeeg,  the  warrior. 
Strong  was  he  and  fleet  as  roebuck, 
Brave  was  he  and  very  stealthy; 
On  the  deer  crept  like  a  panther; 
Grappled  with  Makwa,5  the  monster, 
Grappled  with  the  bear  and  conquered; 
Took  his  black  claws  for  a  necklet, 
Took  his  black  hide  for  a  blanket. 

When  the  Panther  wed  the  Sea-Gull, 
Young  was  he  and  very  gladsome; 
Fair  was  she  and  full  of  laughter; 
Like  the  robin  in  the  spring-time, 
Sang  from  sunrise  till  the  sunset; 

80 


THE  SEA-GULL  81 

For  she  loved  the  handsome  hunter: 

Deep  as  Gitchee  Gumee's  waters 

Was  her  love — as  broad  and  boundless ; 

And  the  wedded  twain  were  happy — 

Happy  as  the  mated  robins. 

When  their  first-born  saw  the  sunlight 

Joyful  was  the  heart  of  Panther, 

Proud  and  joyful  was  the  mother. 

All  the  days  were  full  of  sunshine, 

All  the  nights  were  full  of  starlight. 

Nightly  from  the  land  of  spirits 

On  them  smiled  the  starry  faces — 

Faces  of  their  friends  departed. 

Little  moccasins  she  made  him, 

Feathered  cap  and  belt  of  wampum; 

From  the  hide  of  fawn  a  blanket, 

Fringed  with  feathers,  soft  as  sable; 

Singing  at  her  pleasant  labor, 

By  her  side  the  tekenagun,8  » 

And  the  little  hunter  in  it. 

Oft  the  Panther  smiled  and  fondled, 

Smiled  upon  the  babe  and  mother, 

Frolicked  with  the  boy  and  fondled. 

Tall  he  grew  and  like  his  father, 

And  they  called  the  boy  the  Raven — 

Called  him  Kak-kah-ge — the  Raven. 

Happy  hunter  was  the  Panther. 

From  the  woods  he  brought  the  pheasant, 

Brought  the  red-deer  and  the  rabbit, 

Brought  the  trout  from  Gitchee  Gumee — 

Brought  the  mallard  from  the  marshes — 

Royal  feast  for  boy  and  mother: 

Brought  the  hides  of  fox  and  beaver, 

Brought  the  skins  of  mink  and  otter, 


82  THE  SEA-GULL 

Lured  the  loon  and  took  his  blanket, 

Took  his  blanket  for  the  Raven. 

Winter  swiftly  followed  winter, 

And  again  the  tekenagun 

Held  a  babe — a  tawny  daughter, 

Held  a  dark-eyed,  dimpled  daughter; 

And  they  called  her  Waub-omee'-mee' — 

Thus  they  named  her — the  White-Pigeon. 

But  as  winter  followed  winter 

Cold  and  sullen  grew  the  Panther; 

Sat  and  smoked  his  pipe  in  silence ; 

When  he  spoke  he  spoke  in  anger; 

In  the  forest  often  tarried 

Many  days,  and  homeward  turning, 

Brought  no  game  unto  his  wigwam; 

Only  brought  his  empty  quiver, 

Brought  his  dark  and  sullen  visage. 

Sad  at  heart  and  very  lonely 
Sat  the  Sea-Gull  in  the  wigwam; 
Sat  and  swung  the  tekenagun; 
Sat  and  sang  to  Waub-omee'-mee : 
Thus  she  sang  to  Waub-omee'-mee', 
Thus  the  lullaby  she  chanted: 

Wa-wa,  wa-wa,  wa-we-ye&; 
Kah-we'en,  nee-zhe'ka  ke-diaus-ai, 
Ke-gah  nau-wai,  ne-me-go  s'we'en, 
Ne-baun,  ne-baun,  ne-daun-is  ais, 
Wa-wa,  wa-wa,  wa-we-yea; 
Ne-baun,  ne-baun,  ne-daun-is-ais, 
E-we  wa-wa,  wa-we-yea, 
E-we  wa-wa,  wa-we-yea. 

TRANSLATION 

Swing,  swing,  little  one,  lullaby; 


THE   SEA-GULL  83 

Thou'rt  not  left  alone  to  weep; 
Mother  cares  for  you — she  is  nigh; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sweetly  sleep; 
Swing,  swing,  little  one,  lullaby; 
Mother  watches  you — she  is  nigh; 
Gently,  gently,  wee  one,  swing; 
Gently,  gently,  while  I  sing 
E-we  wa-wa — lullaby, 
E-we  wa-wa — lullaby. 


Homeward  to  his  lodge  returning 
Kindly  greeting  found  the  hunter, 
Fire  to  warm  and  food  to  nourish, 
Golden  trout  from  Gitchee  Gumee, 
Caught  by  Kah-kah-ge — the  Raven. 
With  a  snare  he  caught  the  rabbit — 
Caught  Wabos,7  the  furry-footed, 
Caught  Penay,7  the  forest-drummer; 
Sometimes  with  his  bow  and  arrows 
Shot  the  red  deer  in  the  forest, 
Shot  the  squirrel  in  the  pine-top, 
Shot  Ne-ka,  the  wild-goose,  flying. 
Proud  as  Waub-Ojeeg,  the  warrior, 
To  the  lodge  he  bore  his  trophies.1 
So  when  homeward  turned  the  Panther, 
Ever  found  he  food  provided, 
Found  the  lodge-fire  brightly  burning, 
Found  the  faithful  Sea-Gull  waiting. 
"You  are  cold,"  she  said,  "and  famished; 
Here  are  fire  and  food,  my  husband." 
Not  by  word  or  look  he  answered; 
Only  ate  the  food  provided, 
Filled  his  pipe  and  pensive  puffed  it, 
Sat  and  smoked  in  sullen  silence. 


THE 

UNIVERSITY 


84  THE  SEA-GULL 

Once — her  dark  eyes  full  of  hunger — 
Thus  she  spoke  and  thus  besought  him : 
"Tell  me,  O  my  silent  Panther, 
Tell  me,  O  beloved  husband, 
What  has  made  you  sad  and  sullen? 
Have  you  met  some  evil  spirit — 
Met  some  goblin  in  the  forest? 
Has  he  put  a  spell  upon  you — 
Filled  your  heart  with  bitter  waters, 
That  you  sit  so  sad  and  sullen, 
Sit  and  smoke,  but  never  answer, 
Only  when  the  storm  is  on  you  ? ' ' 

Gruffly  then  the  Panther  answered: 
"Brave  among  the  brave  is  Panther, 
Son  of  Waub-Ojeeg,  the  warrior, 
And  the  brave  are  ever  silent; 
But  a  whining  dog  is  woman, 
Whining  ever  like  a  coward." 

Forth  into  the  tangled  forest, 
Threading  through  the  thorny  thickets, 
Treading  trails  on  marsh  and  meadow, 
Sullen  strode  the  moody  hunter. 
Saw  he  not  the  bear  or  beaver, 
Saw  he  not  the  elk  or  red-deer; 
From  his  path  the  red  fawn  scampered, 
But  no  arrow  followed  after; 
From  his  den  the  sly  wolf  listened, 
But  no  twang  of  bow-string  heard  he. 
Like  one  walking  in  his  slumber, 
Listless,  dreaming,  walked  the  Panther; 
Surely  had  some  witch  bewitched  him, 
Some  bad  spirit  of  the  forest. 

When  the  Sea-Gull  wed  the  Panther 


THE  SEA-GULL  86 

i 

Fair  was  she  and  full  of  laughter; 
Like  the  robin  in  the  spring-time, 
Sang  from  sunrise  till  the  sunset 
But  the  storms  of  many  winters 
Sifted  frost  upon  her  tresses, 
Seamed  her  tawny  face  with  wrinkles. 
Not  alone  the  storms  of  winters 
Seamed  her  tawny  face  with  wrinkles. 
Twenty  winters  for  the  Panther 
Had  she  kept  the  humble  wigwam; 
For  her  haughty  lord  and  master 
Borne  the  burdens  on  the  journey, 
Gathered  fagots  for  the  lodge-fire, 
Tanned  the  skins  of  bear  and  beaver, 
Tanned  the  hides  of  moose  and  red-deer; 
Made  him  moccasins  and  leggins, 
Decked  his  hood  with  quills  and  feathers — 
Colored  quills  of  Kaug,8  the  thorny, 
Feathers  from  Kenew,8  the  eagle. 
For  a  warrior  brave  was  Panther; 
Often  had  he  met  the  foeman, 
Met  the  bold  and  fierce  Dakotas, 
Westward  on  the  war-path  met  them; 
And  the  scalps  he  won  were  numbered, 
Numbered  seven  by  KeneV-feathers. 
Sad  at  heart  was  Sea-Gull  waiting, 
Watching,  waiting  in  the  wigwam; 
Not  alone  the  storms  of  winters 
Sifted  frost  upon  her  tresses. 

Ka-be-b6n-ik-ka,  the  mighty,* 
He  that  sends  the  cruel  winter, 
He  that  turned  to  stone  the  Giant, 
From  the  distant  Thunder-mountain, 


86  THE  SEA-GULL 

Far  across  broad  Gitchee  Gumee, 
Sent  his  warning  of  the  winter, 
Sent  the  white  frost  and  Kewaydin,10 
Sent  the  swift  and  hungry  North-wind. 
Homeward  to  the  South  the  Summer 
Turned  and  fled  the  naked  forests. 
With  the  Summer  flew  the  robin, 
Flew  the  bobolink  and  blue-bird. 
Flock-wise  following  chosen  leaders, 
Like  the  shaftless  heads  of  arrows 
Southward  cleaving  through  the  ether, 
Soon  the  wild-geese  followed  after. 
One  long  moon  the  Sea-Gull  waited, 
Watched  and  waited  for  her  husband, 
Till  at  last  she  heard  his  footsteps, 
Heard  him  coming  through  the  thicket. 
Forth  she  went  to  meet  her  husband, 
Joyful  went  to  greet  her  husband. 
Lo  behind  the  haughty  hunter, 
Closely  following  in  his  footsteps, 
Walked  a  young  and  handsome  woman, 
Walked  the  Red  Fox  from  the  island — 
Gitchee  M£nis — the  Grand  Island — 
Followed  him  into  the  wigwam, 
Proudly  took  her  seat  beside  him. 
On  the  Red  Fox  smiled  the  hunter, 
On  the  hunter  smiled  the  woman. 

Old  and  wrinkled  was  the  Sea-Gull, 
Good  and  true,  but  old  and  wrinkled. 
Twenty  winters  for  the  Panther 
Had  she  kept  the  humble  wigwam, 
Borne  the  burdens  on  the  journey, 
Gathered  fagots  for  the  lodge-fire, 


THE  SEA-GULL  87 

Tanned  the  skins  of  bear  and  beaver, 
Tanned  the  hides  of  moose  and  red-deer, 
Made  him  moccasins  and  leggins, 
Decked  his  hood  with  quills  and  feathers, 
Colored  quills  of  Kaug,  the  thorny, 
Feathers  from  the  great  war-eagle; 
Ever  diligent  and  faithful, 
Ever  patient,  ne'er  complaining. 
But  like  all  brave  men  the  Panther 
Loved  a  young  and  handsome  woman; 
So  he  dallied  with  the  danger, 
Dallied  with  the  fair  Alg6akin,n 
Till  a  magic  mead  she  gave  him, 
Brewed  of  buds  of  birch  and  cedar.12 
Madly  then  he  loved  the  woman; 
Then  she  ruled  him,  then  she  held  him 
Tangled  in  her  raven  tresses, 
Tied  and  tangled  in  her  tresses. 

Ah,  the  tall  and  tawny  Panther! 
Ah,  the  brave  and  brawny  Panther! 
Son  of  Waub-Ojeeg,  the  warrior! 
With  a  slender  hair  she  led  him, 
With  a  slender  hair  she  drew  him, 
Drew  him  often  to  her  wigwam; 
There  she  bound  him,  there  she  held  him 
Tangled  in  her  raven  tresses, 
Tied  and  tangled  in  her  tresses. 
Ah,  the  best  of  men  are  tangled — 
Sometimes  tangled  in  the  tresses 
Of  a  fair  and  crafty  woman. 

So  the  Panther  wed  the  Red  Fox, 
And  she  followed  to  his  wigwam. 
Young  again  he  seemed  and  gladsome, 


88  THE  SEA-GULL 

Glad  as  Raven  when  the  father 
Made  his  first  bow  from  the  elm-tree, 
From  the  ash-tree  made  his  arrows, 
Taught  him  how  to  aim  his  arrows, 
How  to  shoot  Wab6s — the  rabbit. 
Then  again  the  brawny  hunter 
Brought  the  black  bear  and  the  beaver, 
Brought  the  caribou  and  red-deer, 
Brought  the  rabbit  and  the  pheasant — 
Choicest  bits  of  all  for  Red  Fox. 
For  her  robes  he  brought  the  sable, 
Brought  the  otter  and  the  ermine, 
Brought  the  black-fox  tipped  with  silver. 

But  the  Sea-Gull  murmured  never, 
Not  a  word  she  spoke  in  anger, 
Went  about  her  work  as  ever, 
Tanned  the  skins  of  bear  and  beaver, 
Tanned  the  hides  of  moose  and  red-deer, 
Gathered  fagots  for  the  lodge-fire, 
Gathered  rushes  from  the  marshes; 
Deftly  into  mats  she  wove  them; 
Kept  the  lodge  as  bright  as  ever. 
Only  to  herself  she  murmured, 
All  alone  with  Waub-omee'-mee', 
On  the  tall  and  toppling  highland, 
O'er  the  wilderness  of  waters; 
Murmured  to  the  murmuring  waters, 
Murmured  to  the  Ne'be-ndw-baigs24 — 
To  the  spirits  of  the  waters; 
On  the  wild  waves  poured  her  sorrow. 
Save  the  infant  on  her  bosom 
With  her  dark  eyes  wide  with  wonder, 
None  to  hear  her  but  the  spirits, 


THE  SEA-GULL  89 

And  the  murmuring  pines  above  her. 
Thus  she  cast  away  her  burdens, 
Cast  her  burdens  on  the  waters; 
Thus  unto  the  good  Great  Spirit, 
Made  her  lowly  lamentation : 
"  Wahonowin ! — Wahonowin  !13 
Gitchee  Manito,  bena-nin! 
Nah,  Ba-ba,  showain  neme'shin! 
Wahon6  win ! — Wahon6win ! ' ' 

Ka-be-b6n-ik-ka,9  the  mighty, 

He  that  sends  the  cruel  winter, 

From  the  distant  Thunder-mountain 

On  the  shore  of  Gitchee  Gumee, 

On  the  rugged  northern  border, 

Sent  his  solemn,  final  warning, 

Sent  the  white  wolves  of  the^Nor'land.14    , 

Like  the  dust  of  stars  in  ether — 

In  the  Pathway  of  the  Spirits,15 

Like  the  sparkling  dust  of  diamonds, 

Fell  the  frost  upon  the  forest, 

On  the  mountains  and  the  meadows, 

On  the  wilderness  of  woodland, 

On  the  wilderness  of  waters. 

All  the  lingering  fowls  departed — 

All  that  seek  the  South  in  winter, 

All  but  Shingebis,  the  diver;18 

He  defies  the  Winter-maker, 

Sits  and  laughs  at  \\  inter-maker. 

Ka-be-b6n-ik-ka,  the  mighty, 

From  his  wigwam  called  Kewaydin — 

From  his  home  among  the  icebergs, 

From  the  sea  of  frozen  waters, 

Called  the  swift  and  hungry  North- wind. 


90  THE  SEA-GULL 

Then  he  spread  his  mighty  pinions 
Over  all  the  land  and  shook  them. 
Like  the  white  down  of  Waube'se17 
Fell  the  feathery  snow  and  covered 
All  the  marshes  and  the  meadows, 
All  the  hill-tops  and  the  highlands. 
Then  old  P£boan18 — the  winter — 
Laughed  along  the  stormy  waters, 
Danced  upon  the  windy  headlands, 
On  the  storm  his  white  hair  streaming, 
And  his  steaming  breath,  ascending, 
On  the  pine-tops  and  the  cedars 
Fell  in  frosty  mists  of  silver, 
Sprinkling  spruce  and  fir  with  silver, 
Sprinkling  all  the  woods  with  silver. 

By  the  lodge-fire  all  the  winter 
Sat  the  Sea-Gull  and  the  Red  Fox, 
Sat  and  kindly  spoke  and  chatted, 
Till  the  twain  seemed  friends  together. 
Friends  they  seemed  in  word  and  action, 
But  within  the  breast  of  either 
Smoldered  still  the  baneful  embers — 
Fires  of  jealousy  and  hatred — 
Like  a  camp-fire  in  the  forest 
Left  by  hunters  and  deserted ; 
Only  seems  a  bed  of  ashes, 
But  the  East  wind,  Wabun-no6din, 
Scatters  through  the  woods  the  ashes, 
Fans  to  flame  the  sleeping  embers, 
And  the  wild-fire  roars  and  rages, 
Roars  and  rages  through  the  forest. 
So  the  baneful  embers  smoldered, 
Smoldered  in  the  breast  of  either. 


THE  SEA-GULL  91 

From  the  far-off  Sunny  Islands, 
From  the  pleasant  land  of  Summer, 
Where  the  spirits  of  the  blessed 
Feel  no  more  the  fangs  of  hunger, 
Or  the  cold  breath  of  Kewaydin, 
Came  a  stately  youth  and  handsome, 
Came  Segtin,19  the  foe  of  Winter. 
Like  the  rising  sun  his  face  was, 
Like  the  shining  stars  his  eyes  were, 
Light  his  footsteps  as  the  Morning's, 
In  his  hand  were  buds  and  blossoms, 
On  his  brow  a  blooming  garland. 
Straightway  to  the  icy  wigwam 
Of  old  Peboan,  the  Winter, 
Strode  Segun  and  quickly  entered. 
There  old  Peboan  sat  and  shivered, 
Shivered  o'er  his  dying  lodge-fire. 

"Ah,  my  son,  I  bid  you  welcome: 
Sit  and  tell  me  your  adventures; 
I  will  tell  you  of  my  power; 
We  will  pass  the  night  together." 
Thus  spake  Pe"boan— the  Winter; 
Then  he  filled  his  pipe  and  lighted; 
Then  by  sacred  custom  raised  it 
To  the  spirits  in  the  ether; 
To  the  spirits  in  the  caverns 
Of  the  hollow  earth  he  lowered  it. 
Thus  he  passed  it  to  the  spirits, 
And  the  unseen  spirits  puffed  it. 
Next  himself  old  Peboan  honored; 
Thrice  he  puffed  his  pipe  and  passed  it, 
Passed  it  to  the  handsome  stranger. 

"Lo  I  blow  my  breath,"  said  Winter, 


92  THE  SEA-GULL 

"And  the  laughing  brooks  are  silent. 
Hard  as  flint  become  the  waters, 
And  the  rabbit  runs  upon  them." 

Then  Segun,  the  fair  youth,  answered: 

See! — I  breathe  upon  the  hillsides, 

On  the  valleys  and  the  meadows, 

And  behold,  by  unseen  magic — 

By  the  magic  of  the  spirits, 

Spring  the  flowers  and  tender  grasses." 

Then  old  Pe'boan  replying: 
"Nahl*  I  breathe  upon  the  forests, 
And  the  leaves  fall  sere  and  yellow; 
Then  I  shake  my  hair  and  snow  falls, 
Covering  all  the  naked  landscape." 

Then  Segun  arose  and  answered: 
"Nashke!20 — see! — I  shake  my  ringlets; 
On  the  earth  the  warm  rain  falleth, 
And  the  flowers  look  up  like  children 
Glad-eyed  from  their  mother's  bosom. 
Lo  my  voice  recalls  the  robin, 
Brings  the  bobolink  and  bluebird, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  music. 
With  my  breath  I  melt  their  fetters, 
And  the  brooks  leap  laughing  onward." 

Then  old  Peboan  looked  upon  him, 
Looked  and  knew  Segun,  the  Summer. 
From  his  eyes  the  big  tears  started 
And  his  boastful  tongue  was  silent. 
Now  Keezis — the  great  life-giver, 
From  his  wigwam  in  Waubu-nong21 
Rose  and  wrapped  his  shining  blanket 


THE  SEA-GULL  93 

Rtfund  his  giant  form  and  started, 
Westward  started  on  his  journey, 
Striding  on  from  hill  to  hill-top. 
Upward  then  he  climbed  the  ether — 
On  the  Bridge  of  Stars22  he  traveled, 
Westward  traveled  on  his  journey 
To  the  far-off  Sunset  Mountains — 
To  the  gloomy  land  of  shadows. 

On  the  lodge-poles  sang  the  robin — 
And  the  brooks  began  to  murmur. 
On  the  South-wind  floated  fragrance 
Of  the  early  buds  and  blossoms. 
From  old  P6b6an's  eyes  the  tear-drops 
Down  his  pale  face  ran  in  streamlets; 
Less  and  less  he  grew  in  stature 
Till  he  melted  down  to  nothing; 
And  behold,  from  out  the  ashes, 
From  the  ashes  of  his  lodge-fire, 
Sprang  the  Miscodeed23  and,  blushing, 
Welcomed  Segun  to  the  North-land. 

So  from  Sunny  Isles  returning, 
From  the  Summer-Land  of- spirits, 
On  the  poles  of  Panther's  wigwam 
Sang  Opee"-chee — sang  the  robin. 
In  the  maples  cooed  the  pigeons — 
Cooed  and  wooed  like  silly  lovers. 
"Hah! — hah!"  laughed  the  crow  derisive, 
In  the  pine-top,  at  their  folly — 
Laughed  and  jeered  the  silly  lovers. 
Blind  with  love  were  they,  and  saw  not; 
Deaf  to  all  but  love,  and  heard  not; 
So  they  cooed  and  wooed  unheeding, 
Till  the  gray  hawk  pounced  upon  them, 


94  THE  SEA-GULL 

And  the  old  crow  shook  with  laughter. 

On  the  tall  cliff  by  the  sea-shore 
Red  Fox  made  a  swing.     She  fastened 
Thongs  of  moose-hide  to  the  pine-tree, 
To  the  strong  arm  of  the  pine-tree. 
Like  the  hawk,  above  the  waters, 
There  she  swung  herself  and  fluttered, 
Laughing  at  the  thought  of  danger, 
Swung  and  fluttered  o'er  the  waters. 
Then  she  bantered  Sea-Gull,  saying, 
"See! — I  swing  above  the  billows! 
Dare  you  swing  above  the  billows — 
Swing  like  me  above  the  billows?" 

To  herself  said  Sea-Gull— "Surely 

I  will  dare  whatever  danger 

Dares  the  Red  Fox — dares  my  rival; 

She  shall  never  call  me  coward." 

So  she  swung  above  the  waters — 

Dizzy  height  above  the  waters, 

Pushed  and  aided  by  her  rival, 

To  and  fro  with  reckless  daring, 

Till  the  strong  tree  rocked  and  trembled, 

Rocked  and  trembled  with  its  burden. 

As  above  the  yawning  billows 

Flew  the  Sea-Gull  like  a  whirlwind, 

Red  Fox,  swifter  than  red  lightning, 

Cut  the  thongs,  and  headlong  downward, 

Like  an  osprey  from  the  ether, 

Like  a  wild-goose  pierced  with  arrows, 

Fluttering  fell  the  frantic  woman, 

Fluttering  fell  into  the  waters — 

Plunged  and  sunk  beneath  the  waters ! 

Hark ! — the  wailing  of  the  West- wind ! 


THE  SEA-GULL  05 

Hark! — the  wailing  of  the  waters, 
And  the  beating  of  the  billows ! 
But  no  more^the  voice^of  Sea-Gull. 

In  the  wigwam  sat  the;Red  Fox, 
Hushed  the^wail,  of .  Waub-omee'-mee', 
Weeping  for^her  absent  mother. 
With  the  twinkling  stars  the  hunter 
From  the  forest  came  and  Raven. 
"Sea-Gull  wanders  late,"  said  Red  Fox, 
"Late  she  wanders  by  the  sea-shore, 
And  some  evil  may  befall  her." 
In  the  misty  morning  twilight 
Forth  went  Panther  and  the  Raven, 
Searched  the  forest  and  the  marshes, 
Searched  for  leagues  along  the  lake-shore, 
Searched  the  islands  and  the  highlands; 
But  they  found  no  trace  or  tidings, 
Found  no  track  in  marsh  or  meadow, 
Found  no  trail  in  fen  or  forest, 
On  the  shore-sand  found  no  footprints. 
Many  days  they  sought  and  found  not. 
Then  to  Panther  spoke  the  Raven: 
"  She  is  in  the  Land  of  Spirits —  , 
Surely  in  the  Land  of  Spirits. 
High  at  midnight  I  beheld  her — 
Like  a  flying  star  beheld  her — 
To  the  waves  of  Gitchee  Gumee 
Downward  flashing  through  the  ether. 
Thus  she  flashed  that  I  might  see  her, 
See  and  know  my  mother's  spirit; 
Thus  she  pointed  to  the  waters, 
And  beneath  them  lies  her  body, 
In  the  wigwam  of  the  spirits — 


96  THE  SEA-GULL 

In  the  lodge  of  Nebe-naw-baigs."24 

Then  spoke  Panther  to  the  Raven: 
"  On  the  tall  cliff  by  the  waters 
Wait  and  watch  with  Waub-omee'-mee'. 
If  the  Sea-Gull  hear  the  wailing 
Of  her  infant  she  will  answer." 

On  the  tall  cliff  by  the  waters 

So  the  Raven  watched  and  waited; 

All  the  day  he  watched  and  waited, 

But  the  hungry  infant  slumbered, 

Slumbered  by  the  side  of  Raven, 

Till  the  pines'  gigantic  shadows 

Stretched  and  pointed  to  Waubu-nong21 — 

To  the  far-off  land  of  Sunrise; 

Then  the  wee  one  woke  and,  famished, 

Made  a  long  and  piteous  wailing. 

From  afar  where  sky  and  waters 
Meet  in  misty  haze  and  mingle, 
Straight  toward  the  rocky  highland, 
Straight  as  flies  the  feathered  arrow, 
Straight  to  Raven  and  the  infant, 
Swiftly  flew  a  snow-white  sea-gull — 
Flew  and  touched  the  earth  a  woman. 
And  behold,  the  long-lost  mother 
Caught  her  wailing  child  and  nursed  her, 
Sang  a  lullaby  and  nursed  her. 

Thrice  was  wound  a  chain  of  silver 
Round  her  waist  and  strongly  fastened. 
Far  away  into  the  waters — 
To  the  wigwam  of  the  spirits — 
To  the  lodge  of  Nebe-naw-baigs — 
Stretched  the  magic  chain  of  silver. 


THE  SEA-GULL  97 

Spoke  the  mother  to  the  Raven: 
"  O  my  son — my  brave  young  hunter, 
Feed  my  tender  little  orphan; 
Be  a  father  to  my  orphan; 
Be  a  mother  to  my  orphan — 
For  the  crafty  Red  Fox  robbed  us — 
Robbed  the  Sea-Gull  of  her  husband, 
Robbed  the  infant  of  her  mother. 
From  this  cliff  the  treacherous  woman 
Headlong  into  Gitchee  Gumee 
Plunged  the  mother  of  my  orphan. 
Then  a  Nebe-naw-baig  caught  me — 
Chief  of  all  the  Nebe-naw-baigs — 
Took  me  to  his  shining  wigwam, 
In  the  cavern  of  the  waters, 
Deep  beneath  the  mighty  waters. 
All  below  is  burnished  copper, 
All  above  is  burnished  silver 
Gemmed  with  amethyst  and  agates. 
As  his  wife  the  Spirit  holds  me; 
By  this  silver  chain  he  holds  me. 

"When  my  little  one  is  famished, 
When  with  long  and  piteous  wailing 
Cries  the  orphan  for  her  mother, 
Hither  bring  her,  O  my  Raven; 
I  will  hear  her — I  will  answer. 
Now  the  Nebe-naw-baig  calls  me — 
Pulls  the  chain — I  must  obey  him." 
Thus  she  spoke,  and  in  the  twinkling 
Of  a  star  the  spirit- woman 
Changed  into  a  snow-white  sea-gull, 
Spread  her  wings  and  o'er  the  waters 
Swiftly  flew  and  swiftly  vanished. 


98  THE  SEA-GULL 

Then  in  secret  to  the  Panther 

Raven  told  his  tale  of  wonder. 

Sad  and  sullen  was  the  hunter; 

Sorrow  gnawed  his  heart  like  hunger; 

All  the  old  love  came  upon  him, 

And  the  new  love  was  a  hatred. 

Hateful  to  his  heart  was  Red  Fox, 

But  he  kept  from  her  the  secret — 

Kept  his  knowledge  of  the  murder. 

Vain  was  she  and  very  haughty — 

Oge-ma-kwa25  of  the  wigwam. 

All  in  vain  her  fond  caresses 

On  the  Panther  now  she  lavished ; 

When  she  smiled  his  face  was  sullen, 

When  she  laughed  he  frowned  upon  her; 

In  her  net  of  raven  tresses 

Now  no  more  she  held  him  tangled. 

Now  through  all  her  fair  disguises 

Panther  saw  an  evil  spirit, 

Saw  the  false  heart  of  the  woman. 

On  the  tall  cliff  o'er  the  waters 
Raven  sat  with  Waub-omee'-mee, 
Sat  and  watched  again  and  waited, 
Till  the  wee  one,  faint  and  famished, 
Made  a  long  and  piteous  wailing. 
Then  again  the  snow-white  Sea-Gull, 
From  afar  where  sky  and  waters 
Meet  in  misty  haze  and  mingle, 
Straight  toward  the  rocky  highland, 
Straight  as  flies  the  feathered  arrow, 
Straight  to  Raven  and  the  infant, 
With  the  silver  chain  around  her, 
Flew  and  touched  the  earth  a  woman. 


THE  SEA-GULL  99 

In  her  arms  she  caught  her  infant — 
Caught  the  wailing  Waub-omee'-mee', 
Sang  a  lullaby  and  nursed  her. 
Sprang  the  Panther  from  the  thicket — 
Sprang  and  broke  the  chain  of  silver! 
With  his  tomahawk  "he  broke  it. 
Thus  he  freed  the  willing  Sea-Gull— 
From  the  Water-Spirit  freed  her, 
From  the  Chief  of  Nebe-naw-baigs. 

Very  angry  was  the  Spirit; 
When  he  drew  the  chain  of  silver, 
Drew  and  found  that  it  was  broken, 
Found  that  he  had  lost  the  woman, 
Very  angry  was  the  Spirit. 
Then  he  raged  beneath  the  waters, 
Raged  and  smote  the  mighty  waters, 
Till  the  big  sea  boiled  and  bubbled, 
Till  the  white-haired,  bounding  billows 
Roared  around  the  rocky  headlands, 
Rolled  and  roared  upon  the  shingle. 

To  the  wigwam  happy  Panther, 
As  when  first  he  wooed  and  won  her 
Led  his  wife — as  young  and  handsome. 
For  the  waves  of  Gitchee  Gumee 
Washed  away  the  frost  and  wrinkles, 
And  the  spirits  by  their  magic 
Made  her  young  and  fair  forever. 

In  the  wigwam  sat  the  Red  Fox, 
Sat  and  sang  a  song  of  triumph, 
For  she  little  dreamed  of  danger, 
Till  the  haughty  hunter  entered, 
Followed  by  the  happy  mother, 


100  THE  SEA-GULL 

Holding  in  her  arms  her  infant. 
When  the  Red  Fox  saw  the  Sea-Gull — 
Saw  the  dead  a  living  woman, 
One  wild  cry  she  gave  despairing, 
One  wild  cry  as  of  a  demon. 
Up  she  sprang  and  from  the  wigwam 
To  the  tall  cliff  flew  in  terror; 
Frantic  sprang  upon  the  margin, 
Frantic  plunged  into  the  waters, 
Headlong  plunged  into  the  waters. 

Dead  she  tossed  upon  the  billows; 
For  the  Nebe-naw-baigs  knew  her, 
Knew  the  crafty,  wicked  woman, 
And  they  cast  her  from  the  waters, 
Spurned  her  from  their  shining  wigwams; 
Far  away  upon  the  shingle 
With  the  roaring  waves  they  cast  her. 
There  upon  her  bloated  body 
Fed  the  cawing  crows  and  ravens, 
Fed  the  hungry  wolves  and  foxes. 

On  the  shore  of  Gitchee  Gumee, 
Ever  young  and  ever  handsome, 
Long  and  happy  lived  the  Sea-Gull, 
Long  and  happy  with  the  Panther. 
Evermore  the  happy  hunter 
Loved  the  mother  of  his  children. 
Like  a  red  star  many  winters 
Blazed  their  lodge-fire  on  the  sea-shore. 
O'er  the  Bridge  of  Souls26  together 
Walked  the  Sea-Gull  and  the  Panther. 
To  the  far-off  Sunny  Islands — 
To  the  Summer-Land  of  Spirits, 
Sea-Gull  journeyed  with  her  husband — 


THE  SEA-GULL  101 

Where  no  more  the  happy  hunter 
Feels  the  fangs  of  frost  or  famine, 
Or  the  keen  blasts  of  Kewaydin, 
Where  no  pain  or  sorrow  enters, 
And  no  crafty,  wicked  woman. 
There  she  rules  his  lodge  forever, 
And  the  twain  are  very  happy, 
On  the  far-off  Sunny  Islands, 
In  the  Summer-Land  of  Spirits. 

On  the  rocks  of  Gitchee  Gumee — 
On  the  Pictured  Rocks — the  legend 
Long  ago  was  traced  and  written, 
Pictured  by  the  Water-Spirits ; 
But  the  storms  of  many  winters 
Have  bedimmed  the  pictured  story, 
So  that  none  can  read  the  legend 
But  the  Jossakeeds,27  the  prophets. 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 
MY  DEVOTED   WIFE 

DEAD  AND  GONE 
YET  ALWAYS   WITH   ME 

I    DEDICATE 
PAULINE 

THE   FLOWER   OF   MY    HEART 
NURSED   INTO    BLOOM   BY   HER   LOVING  CARE 
AND   SOMETIMES  WATERED   WITH   HER  TEARS 

H.  L.  G. 


PAULINE 
PART  I 

INTRODUCTION  (1878 ) 

FAIR  morning  sat  upon  the  mountain-top, 
Night  skulking  crept  into  the  mountain-chasm. 
The  silent  ships  slept  in  the  silent  bay; 
One  broad  blue  bent  of  ether  domed  the  heavens, 
One  broad  blue  distance  lay  the  shadowy  land, 
One  broad  blue  vast  of  silence  slept  the  sea. 
Now  from  the  dewy  groves  the  joyful  birds 
In  carol-concert  sang  their  matin  songs 
Softly  and  sweetly — full  of  prayer  and  praise. 
Then  silver-chiming,  solemn- voiced  bells 
Rung  out  their  music  on  the  morning  air, 
And  Lisbon  gathered  to  the  festival 
In  chapel  and  cathedral.     Choral  hymns 
And  psalms  of  sea-toned  organs  mingling  rose 
With  sweetest  incense  floating  up  to  heaven, 
Bearing  the  praises  of  the  multitudes, 
And  all  was  holy  peace  and  holy  happiness. 
A  rumbling  of  deep  thunders  in  the  deep; 
The  vast  sea  shuddered  and  the  mountains  groaned; 
Up-heaved  the  solid  earth — the  nether  rocks 
Burst — and  the  sea — the  earth — the  echoing  heavens 
Thundered  infernal  ruin.     On  their  knees 
The  trembling  multitudes  received  the  shock, 

103 


104  PA  ULINE 

And  dumb  with  sudden  terror  bowed  their  heads 
To  toppling  spire  and  plunging  wall  and  dome. 

So  shook  the  peaceful  North  the  sudden  roar 
Of  Treason  thundering  on  the  April  air — 
A  mighty  shock  that  jarred  the  granite  hills 
And  westward  rolled  beyond  th'  eternal  walls 
Rock-built  Titanic — for  a  moment  shook: 
Uprose  a  giant  and  with  iron  hands 
Clutched  his  huge  hammer,  claspt  his  belt  of  steel, 
And  o'er  the  Midgard-monster  mighty  Thor 
Loomed  for  the  combat. 

Peace— O  blessed  Peace! 

The  war-worn  veterans  hailed  thee  with  a  shout 
Of  Alleluias ; — homeward  wound  the  trains, 
And  homeward  marched  the  bayonet-bristling  columns 
To  "Hail  Columbia"  from  a  thousand  horns — 
Marched  to  the  jubilee  of  chiming  bells, 
Marched  to  the  joyful  boom  of  cannon,  marched 
With  blazing  banners  and  victorious  songs 
Into  the  outstretched  arms  of  love  and  home. 

But  there  be  columns — columns  of  the  dead 

That  slumber  on  an  hundred  battle-fields — 

No  bugle-blast  shall  waken  till  the  trump 

Of  the  Archangel.     O  the  loved  and  lost! 

For  them  no  jubilee  of  chiming  bells ; 

For  them  no  cannon-peal  of  victory ; 

For  them  no  outstretched  arms  of  love  and  home. 

God's  peace  be  with  them.     Heroes  who  went  down, 

Wearing  their  stars,  live  in  the  nation's  songs 

And  stories — there  be  greater  heroes  still 

That  molder  in  unnumbered  nameless  graves 

Or  bleach  unburied  on  the  fields  of  fame 


PA  ULINE  106 

Won  by  their  valor.     Who  will  sing  of  these — 
Sing  of  the  patriot-deeds  on  field  and  flood — 
Of  these — the  true  heroes — all  unsung? 
Where  sleeps  the  modest  bard  in  Quaker  gray 
Who  blew  the  pibroch  ere  the  battle  lowered, 
Then  pitched  his  tent  upon  the  balmy  beach? 
"Snow-bound,"  I  ween,  among  his  native  hills. 
And  where  the  master  hand  that  swept  the  lyre 
Till  wrinkled  critics  cried  "Excelsior"? 
Gathering  the  "Aftermath"  in  frosted  fields. 
Then,  timid  Muse,  no  longer  shake  thy  wings 
For  airy  realms  and  fold  again  in  fear; 
A  broken  flight  is  better  than  no  flight ; 
Be  thine  the  task,  as  best  you  may,  to  sing 
The  deeds  of  one  who  sleeps  at  Gettysburg 
Among  the  thousands  in  a  common  grave. 
The  story  of  his  life  I  bid  you  tell 
As  it  was  told  one  windy  winter  night 
To  veterans  gathered  around  the  festal  board, 
Fighting  old  battles  over  where  the  field 
Ran  red  with  wine,  and  all  the  battle-blare 
Was  merry  laughter  and  the  merry  songs — 
Told  when  the  songs  were  sung  by  him  who  heard 
The  pith  of  it  from  the  dying  soldier's  lips — 
His  Captain — tell  it  as  the  Captain  told. 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  STORY 

"Well,  comrades,  let  us  fight  one  battle  more; 
Let  the  cock  crow — we'll  guard  the  camp  till  morn. 
And — since  the  singers  and  the  merry  ones 
Are  hors  de  combat — fill  the  cups  again; 
Nod  if  you  must,  but  listen  to  a  tale 
Romantic — but  the  warp  thereof  is  truth. 
When  the  old  Flag  on  Sumter's  sea-girt  walls 


106  PA  ULINE 

From  its  proud  perch  a  fluttering  ruin  fell, 
I  swore  an  oath  as  big  as  Bunker  Hill; 
For  I  was  younger  then,  nor  battle-scarred, 
And  full  of  patriot-faith  and  patriot-fire. 

"  I  raised  a  company  of  riflemen, 
Marched  to  the  front,  and  proud  of  my  command, 
Nor  seeking  higher,  led  them  till  the  day 
Of  triumph  and  the  nation's  jubilee. 
Among  the  first  that  answered  to  my  call 
The  hero  came  whose  story  you  shall  hear. 
'Tis  better  I  describe  him :   He  was  young — 
Near  two  and  twenty — neither  short  nor  tall — 
A  slender  student,  and  his  tapering  hands 
Had  better  graced  a  maiden  than  a  man: 
Sad,  thoughtful  face — a  wealth  of  raven  hair 
Brushed  back  in  waves  from  forehead  prominent; 
A  classic  nose — half  Roman  and  half  Greek; 
Dark,  lustrous  eyes  beneath  dark,  jutting  brows, 
Wearing  a  shade  of  sorrow,  yet  so  keen, 
And  in  the  storm  of  battle  flashing  fire. 

'"Well,  boy,'  I  said,  'I  doubt  if  you  will  do; 
I  need  stout  men  for  battle-line  and  march — 
Men  that  have  bone  and  muscle — men  inured 
To  toil  and  hardships — men,  in  short,  my  boy, 
To  march  and  fight  and  march  and  fight  again.' 
A  queer  expression  lit  his  earnest  face — 
Half  frown — half  smile. 

"  'Well  try  me.'     That  was  all 
He  answered,  and  I  put  him  on  the  roll — 
Paul  Douglas,  private — and  he  donned  the  blue. 
Paul  proved  himself  the  best  in  my  command; 
I  found  him  first  at  reveille,  and  first 


PA  ULINE  107 

In  all  the-  varied  duties  of  the  day. 

His  rough-hewn  comrades,  bred  to  boisterous  ways, 

Jeered  at  the  slender  youth  with  maiden  hands, 

Nicknamed  him  'Nel,'  and  for  a  month  or  more 

Kept  up  a  fusillade  of  jokes  and  jeers. 

Their  jokes  and  jeers  he  heard  but  heeded  not, 

Or  heeding  did  a  kindly  act  for  him 

That  jeered  him  loudest;   so  the  hardy  men 

Came  to  look  up  to  Paul  as  one  above 

The  level  of  their  rough  and  roistering  ways. 

He  never  joined  the  jolly  soldier-sports, 

But  ever  was  the  first  at  bugle-call, 

Mastered  the  drill  and  often  drilled  the  men. 

Fatigued  with  duty,  weary  with  the  march 

Under  the  blaze  of  the  midsummer  sun, 

He  murmured  not — alike  in  sun  or  rain 

His  utmost  duty  eager  to  perform, 

And  ever  ready — always  just  the  same 

Patient  and  earnest,  sad  and  silent  Paul. 

"The  day  of  battle  came— that  Sabbath  day, 
Midsummer.*     Hot  and  blistering  as  the  flames 
Of  prairie-fires  wind-driven,  the  burning  sun 
Blazed  down  upon  us  and  the  blinding  dust 
Wheeled  in  dense  clouds  and  covered  all  our  ranks, 
As  we  marched  on  to  battle.     Then  the  roar 
Of  batteries  broke  upon  us.     Glad  indeed 
That  music  to  my  soldiers,  and  they  cheered 
And  cheered  again  and  boasted — all  but  Paul — 
And  shouted  '  On  to  Richmond! ' — He  alone 
Was  silent — but  his  eyes  were  full  of  fire. 

"Then  came  the  order — 'Forward,  double  quick!' 
And  we  rushed  into  battle — formed  our  line 

*The  first  battle  of  Bull  Run,  July  21,  1861. 


108  PA  ULINE 

Facing  the  foe — the  ambushed,  deadly  foe, 

Hid  in  the  thicket,  with  the  Union  flag — 

A  cheat — hung  out  before  it — luring  us 

Into  a  blazing  hell.     The  battle  broke 

With  wildest  fury  on  us — crashed  and  roared 

The  rolling  thunder  of  continuous  fire. 

We  broke  and  rallied — charged  and  broke  again, 

And  rallied  still — broke  counter-charge  and  charged 

Loud-yelling,  furious,  on  the  hidden  foe; — 

Met  thrice  our  numbers  and  came  flying  back 

Disordered  and  disheartened.     Yet  again 

I  strove  to  rally  my  discouraged  men, 

But  hell  itself  was  howling; — only  Paul — 

Eager,  but  bleeding  from  a  bullet-wound 

In  the  left  arm — came  springing  to  my  side. 

But  at  that  moment  I  was  struck  and  fell — 

Fell  prostrate;  and  a  swooning  sense  of  death 

Came  on  me,  and  I  saw  and  heard  no  more 

Of  battle  on  that  Sabbath. 

"I  awoke, 

Confined  and  jolted  in  an  ambulance 
Piled  with  the  wounded — driven  recklessly 
By  one  who  chiefly  cared  to  save  himself. 
Dizzy  and  faint  I  raised  my  head:   my  wound 
Was  not  as  dangerous  as  it  might  have  been — 
A  scalp- wound  on  the  temple;    there,  you  see — " 
He  put  his  finger  on  the  ugly  scar — 
"Half  an  inch  deeper  and  some  soldier  friend, 
Among  the  veterans  gathered  here  to-night, 
Perchance  had  told  a  briefer  tale  than  mine. 

"In  front  and  rear  I  saw  the  reckless  rout — 
A  broken  army  flying  panic-struck — 
Our  proud  brigades  of  undulating  steel 


PA  ULINE  100 

That  marched  at  sunrise  under  blazoned  flags, 
Shouting  the  victory  ere  the  cannon  roared, 
And  eager  for  the  honors  of  the  fray — 
Like  bison  Indian-chased  on  windy  plains, 
Now  broken  and  commingled  fled  the  field. 
Words  of  command  were  only  wasted  breath; 
Colonels  and  brigadiers,  on  foot  and  soiled, 
Were  pushed  and  jostled  by  the  hurrying  hordes. 
Anon  the  cry  of  'Cavalry!'  arose, 
And  army-teams  came  dashing  down  the  road 
And  plunged  into  the  panic.     All  the  way 
Was  strewn  with  broken  wagons,  battery-guns, 
Tents,  muskets,  knapsacks  and  exhausted  men. 
My  men  were  mingled  with  the  lawless  crowd, 
And  in  the  swarm  behind  us,  there  was  Paul — 
Silent  and  soldier-like,  with  knapsack  on 
And  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  guarding  me 
And  marching  on  behind  the  ambulance. 
So  all  that  dark  and  dreadful  night  we  marched, 
Each  man  a  captain — captain  of  himself — 
Nor  cared  for  orders  on  that  wild  retreat 
To  safety  from  disaster.     All  that  night, 
Silent  and  soldier-like  my  wounded  Paul 
Marched  close  behind  and  kept  his  faithful  watch. 
For  ever  and  anon  the  jaded  men, 
Clamorous  and  threat'ning,  sought  to  clamber  in; 
Whom  Paul  drove  off  at  point  of  bayonet, 
Wielding  his  musket  with  his  good  right  arm. 
But  when  the  night  was  waning  to  the  morn 
I  saw  that  he  was  weary  and  I  made 
A  place  for  Paul  and  begged  him  to  get  in. 
'No,  Captain;  no,'  he  answered, — 'I  will  walk — 
I'm  making  bone  and  muscle — learning  now 
To  march  and  fight  and  march  and  fight  again.' 


110  PA  ULINE 

That  silenced  me,  and  we  went  rumbling  on. 
Till  morning  found  us  safe  at  Arlington. 

"A  month  off  duty  and  a  faithful  nurse 
Worked  wonders  and  my  head  was  whole  again- 
Nay — to  be  candid — cracked  a  little  yet. 
My  nurse  was  Paul.     Albeit  his  left  arm, 
Flesh-wounded,  pained  him  sorely  for  a  time, 
With  filial  care  he  dressed  my  battered  head, 
And  wrote  for  me  to  anxious  friends  at  home — 
But  never  wrote  a  letter  for  himself. 
Thinking  of  this  one  day,  I  spoke  of  it: — 
A  cloud  came  on  his  face. 

"'My  friends,'  he  said, 

'Are  here  among  my  comrades  in  the  camp.' 
That  made  a  mystery  and  I  questioned  him: 
He  gave  no  answer — or  evasive  ones — 
Seeming  to  shrink  from  question,  and  to  wrap 
Himself  within  himself  and  live  within. 

"Again  we  joined  our  regiment  and  marched; 

Over  the  hills  and  dales  of  Maryland 

Along  the  famous  river  wound  our  way. 

On  picket-duty  at  the  frequent  fords 

For  weary,  laggard  months  were  we  employed 

Guarding  the  broad  Potomac,  while  our  foes, 

Stealthily  watching  for  their  human  game, 

Lurked  like  Apaches  on  the  wooded  shore. 

Bands  of  enemy's  cavalry  by  night 

Along  the  line  of  river  prowled,  and  sought 

To  dash  across  and  raid  in  Maryland. 

Three  regiments  guarded  miles  of  river-bank, 

And  drilled  alternately,  and  one  was  ours. 

Off  picket  duty,  alike  in  fair  or  foul, 

With  knapsacks  on  and  bearing  forty  rounds, 


PAULINE  111 

From  morn  till  night  we  drilled — battalion-drill — 

Often  at  double-quick  for  weary  hours — 

Bearing  our  burdens  in  the  blazing  sun, 

Till  strong  men  staggered  from  the  ranks  and^fell. 

Aye,  many  a  hardy  man  in  those  hard  days 

Was  drilled  and  disciplined  into  his  grave.     Arose 

Murmurs  of  discontent,  and  loud  complaints 

Fell  on  dull  ears  till  patience  was  worn  out 

And  mutiny  was  hinted.     As  for  Paul 

I  never  heard  a  murmur  from  his  lips; 

Nor  did  he  ask  a  reason  for  the  things 

Unreasonable  and  hard  required  of  him, 

But  straightway  did  his  duty  just  as  if 

The  nation's  fate  hung  on  it.     I  pitied  Paul; 

Slender  of  form  and  delicate,  he  bore 

The  toils  and  duties  of  the  hardiest. 

Ill  from  exposure,  or  fatigued  and  worn, 

On  picket  hungered,  shivering  in  the  rain, 

Or  sweltering  in  full  dress,  with  knapsack  on, 

Beneath  the  blaze  of  the  mid-summer  sun, 

He  held  his  spirit — always  still  the  same 

Patient  and  earnest,  sad  and  silent  Paul. 

"We  posted  pickets  two  by  two.     At  night, 

By  turns  each  comrade  slept  and  took  the  watch. 

Once  in  September,  in  a  drenching  storm, 

Three  days  and  nights  with  neither  tent  nor  fire 

Paul  and  a  comrade  held  a  picket-post. 

The  equinox  raged  madly.     Chilling  winds 

In  angry  gusts  roared  from  the  northern  hills, 

Dashing  the  dismal  rain-clouds  into  showers 

That  fell  in  torrents  over  all  the  land. 

In  camp  the  soldiers  crouched  in  dripping  tents, 

Or  shivered  by  the  camp-fires.     I  was  ill 

And  gladly  sought  the  shelter  of  a  hut. 


112  PAULINE 

Orders  were  strict  and  often  hard  to  bear — 

Nor  tents  nor  fire  upon  the  picket-posts — 

Cold  rations  and  a  canopy  of  storms. 

I  pitied  Paul  and  would  have  called  him  in, 

But  that  I  had  no  man  to  take  his  place; 

Nor  did  I  know  he  took  upon  himself 

A  double  task.     His  comrade  on  the  post 

Was  ill,  and  so  he  made  a  shelter  for  him 

With  his  own  blankets  and  a  bed  within ; 

And  took  the  watch  of  both  upon  himself. 

And  on  the  third  night  near  the  dawn  of  day, 

In  rubber  cloak  stole  in  upon  the  post 

A  pompous  major,  on  the  nightly  round, 

Unchallenged.     All  fatigued  and  drenched  with  rain, 

Still  on  his  post  with  rifle  in  his  hand — 

Against  a  sheltering  elm  Paul  stood  and  slept. 

Muttering  of  death  the  brutal  major  stormed, 

Then  pitiless  pricked  the  comrade  with  his  sword, 

And  from  his  shelter  drove  him  to  the  watch, 

Burning  with  fever.     There  Paul  interposed 

And  said: 

"  'I  ask  no  mercy  at  your  hands; 
I  shall  not  whimper,  but  my  comrade  here 
Is  ill  of  fever;   I  have  stood  his  watch: 
Sir,  if  a  human  heart  beats  in  your  breast, 
Send  him  to  camp,  or  he  will  surely  die.1 

"The  pompous  brute — vaingloriously  great 
In  straps  and  buttons — haughtily  silenced  Paul, 
Disarmed  and  sent  him  guarded  to  the  camp, 
And  the  poor  comrade  shivering  stood  the  watch 
Till  dawn  of  day  and  I  was  made  aware. 
Among  the  true  were  some  vainglorious  fools 


PA  ULINE  113 

Called  by  the  fife  and  drum  from  native  slums 
To  lord  and  strut  in  shoulder-straps  and  buttons. 
Scrubs,  born  to  brush  the  boots  of  gentlemen, 
By  sudden  freak  of  fortune  found  themselves 
Masters  of  better  men,  and  lorded  it 
As  only  base  and  brutish  natures  can — 
Braves  on  parade  and  cowards  under  fire. 

"I  interceded  in  my  Paul's  behalf, 

Else  he  had  suffered  graver  punishment, 

But  as  himself  for  mercy  would  not  beg — 

'A  stubborn  boy,'  our  bluff  old  colonel  said — 

To  extra  duty  for  a  month  he  went 

Unmurmuring,  storm  or  shine.     When  the  cold  rain 

Poured  down  most  pitiless  Paul,  drenched  and  wan, 

Guarded  the  baggage  and  the  braying  mules. 

When  the  hot  sun  at  mid-day  blazed  and  burned, 

Like  the  red  flame  on  Mauna  Loa's  top, 

Withering  the  grass  and  parching  earth  and  air, 

I  often  saw  him  knapsacked  and  full-dressed, 

Drilling  the  raw  recruits  at  double-quick; 

And  yet  he  bore  a  patient  countenance, 

And  went  about  his  duty  earnestly 

As  if  it  were  a  pleasure  to  obey. 

"The  month  wore  off  and  mad  disaster  came — • 

Gorging  the  blood  of  heroes  at  Ball's  Bluff. 

'Twas  there  the  brave,  unfaltering  Baker  fell 

Fighting  despair4  between  the  jaws  of  death. 

Quenched  was  the  flame  that  fired  a  thousand  hearts; 

Hushed  was  the  voice  that  shook  the  senate-walls, 

And  rang  defiance  like  a  bugle-blast. 

Broad  o'er  the  rugged  mountains  to  the  north 

Fell  the  incessant  rain  till,  like  a  sea, 

Him  and  the  deadly  ambush  of  the  foe 


114  PA  ULINE 

The  swollen  river  rolled  and  roared  between. 
Brave  Baker  saw  the  peril,  but  not  his 
The  heart  to  shrink  or  falter,  though  he  saw 
His  death-warrant  in  his  orders.     Forth  he  led 
His  proud  brigade  across  the  foaming  flood, 
Firm  and  unfaltering  into  the  chasm  of  death. 
From  morn  till  mid-day  in  a  single  boat 
Unfit,  by  companies,  the  fearless  band 
Passed  over  the  raging  river;   then  advanced 
Upon  the  ambushed  foe.    We  heard  the  roll 
Of  volleys  in  the  forest,  and  uprose, 
From  out  the  wood,  a  cloud  of  battle-smoke. 
Then  came  the  yell  of  foemen  charging  down 
Rank  upon  rank  and  furious.     Hand  to  hand, 
The  little  band  of  heroes,  flanked  and  pressed, 
Fought  thrice  their  numbers;   fearless  Baker  led 
In  prodigies  of  valor;   front  and  flank 
Volleyed  the  deadly  rifles;   in  the  rear 
The  rapid,  raging  river  rolled  and  roared. 
Along  the  Maryland  shore  a  mile  below, 
Eager  to  cross  and  reinforce  our  friends, 
Ten  thousand  soldiers  lay  upon  their  arms; 
And  we  had  boats  to  spare.     In  all  our  ranks 
There  was  not  one  who  did  not  comprehend 
The  peril  and  the  instant  need  of  aid. 
Chafing  we  waited  orders.     We  could  see 
That  Baker's  men  were  fighting  in  retreat; 
For  ever  nearer  o'er  the  forest  rolled 
The  smoke  of  battle.     Orders  came  at  last, 
And  up  along  the  shore  our  regiment  ran, 
Eager  to  aid  our  comrades,  but  too  late! 
Baker  had  fallen  in  the  battle-front; 
He  fought  like  Spartan  and  like  Spartan  fell 
Defiant,  clutching  at  the  throat  of  fate. 


PA  ULINE  115 

Their  leader  lost,  confusion  followed  fast; 

Wild  panic  and  red  slaughter  swept  the  field. 

Powerless  to  save,  we  saw  the  farther  shore 

Covered  with  wounded  and  wild  fugitives — 

Our  own  defeated  and  defenseless  friends. 

Shattered  and  piled  with  wounded  men  the  boat 

Pushed  off  to  brave  the  river,  while  the  foe 

Pressed  on  the  charge  with  fury,  and  refused 

Mercy  to  the  vanquished.     Officers  and  men, 

Cheating  the  savage  foemen  of  their  spoils, 

Their  flags  and  arms  into  the  swirling  depths 

Despairing  hurled,  and  following  plunged  amain. 

As  numerous  as  the  wild  aquatic  flocks 

That  float  in  autumn  on  Lake  Nepigon, 

The  heads  of  swimmers  moved  upon  the  flood. 

And  still  upon  the  shore  a  Spartan  few — 

Shoulder  to  shoulder — back  to  back,  as  one — 

Amid  the  din  and  clang  of  clashing  steel, 

Surrounded  held  the  swarming  foes  at  bay. 

As  in  the  pre-historic  centuries — 

Unnumbered  ages  ere  the  Pyramids — 

Whereof  we  read  on  pre-diluvian  bones 

And  fretted  flints  in  excavated  caves, 

When  savage  men  abode  in  rocky  dens, 

And  wrought  their  weapons  from  the  fiery  flint, 

And  clothed  their  tawny  thighs  in  panther-skins — 

Before  the  mouth  of  some  well-guarded  cave, 

Where  smoked  the  savory  flesh  of  mammoth,  came 

The  great  cave-bear  unbidden  to  the  feast. 

Around  the  monster  swarm  the  brawny  men, 

Wielding  with  sinewy  arms  and  savage  cries 

Their  flinty  spears  and  tomahawks  of  stone. 

Erect  old  bruin  growls  upon  his  foes, 

And  swings  with  mighty  power  his  ponderous  paws — 


110  PA  ULINE 

Woe  unto  him  who  feels  the  crushing  blow — 

Till,  bleeding  from  an  hundred  wounds  and  blind, 

With  sudden  plunge  he  falls  at  last,  and  dies 

Amid  the  shouts  of  his  wild  enemies. 

So  fought  the  Spartan  few,  till  one  by  one, 

They  fell  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  foes. 

The  river  boiled  beneath  the  storm  of  lead; 

Weighed  down  with  wounded  comrades  many  sunk, 

But  more  went  down  with  bullets  in  their  heads. 

O!   it  was  pitiful.     The  outstretched  hands 

Of  men  that  erst  had  faced  the  battle-storm 

Unshaken,  grasping  now  in  wild  despair, 

Wrung  cries  of  pity  from  us.     Vain  our  fire — 

The  range  too  long — it  fell  upon  our  friends; 

At  which  the  foemen  yelled  their  mad  delight. 

A  storm  of  bullets  poured  upon  the  boat, 

Mangling  the  mangled  on  her,  till  at  last, 

Shattered  and  over-laden,  suddenly — 

She  made  a  lurch  to  leeward  and  went  down. 

"A  light  batteau  lay  moored  upon  the  shore; 

Our  gallant  Colonel  called  for  volunteers 

In  mercy's  name  to  man  it  and  push  out. 

But  all  could  see  the  peril.     Stout  the  heart 

Would  dare  to  face  the  raging  flood  and  fire, 

And  to  his  call  responded  not  a  man — 

Save  Paul  and  one  who  perished  at  the  helm. 

They  went  as  if  at  bugle-call  to  drill ; 

Their  comrades  said,  'They  never  will  return.' 

Stoutly  and  steadily  Paul  rowed  the  boat 

Athwart  the  rolling  river's  foaming  tide, 

And  reached  the  wounded  struggling  in  the  flood. 

Bravely  they  worked  away  and  lifted  in 

The  helpless  till  the  boat  would  hold  no  more; 


PA  ULINE  117 

Others  they  helped  to  holds  upon  the  rails, 

Then  pulled  away  the  over-laden  craft. 

We  cheered  them  from  the  shore.     The  maddened  foe 

With  furious  volleys  answered — hitting  oft 

The  little  craft  of  mercy — hands  anon 

Let  go  their  holds  and  sunk  into  the  deep. 

And  in  that  storm  Paul's  gallant  comrade  fell. 

Trimming  his  craft  with  caution  Paul  could  make 

But  little  headway  with  a  single  oar — 

Clutched  in  despair  and  madly  wrenched  away 

By  drowning  men,  the  other.     Firm  and  cool 

Paul  stood  unscathed;  then  fell  a  sudden  shower 

That  broke  his  bended  oar-stem  at  the  blade. 

Down  to  the  brink  we  crept  and  stretched  our  hands, 

And  shouted,  'Overboard,  Paul!  and  save  yourself.' 

"He  stood  a  moment  as  if  all  were  lost, 

Then  caught  the  rope,  and  stretching  forth  his  hand, 

Waved  to  the  foe  and  plunged  into  the  flood. 

Slowly  he  swam  and  towed  the  clumsy  craft, 

Down-drifting  with  the  rapid,  rolling  stream. 

Cheering  him  on  adown  the  shore  we  ran; 

The  current  lent  its  aid  and  bore  him  in 

Toward  us,  and  beyond  the  range  at  last 

Of  foemen's  fire  he  safely  came  to  land, 

Mooring  his  boat  amid  a  storm  of  cheers. 

"Confined  in  hospital  three  days  he  lay 
Fatigued  and  feverous,  but  tender  hands 
Nursed  and  restored  him.     Our  old  Colonel  came 
And  thanked  him — patting  Paul  paternally — 
And  praised  his  daring.     'My  brave  boy,'  he  said, 
'Had  I  a  regiment  of  such  men,  by  Jove! 
I'd  hew  a  path  to  Richmond  speedily.' 
Paul  made  reply,  and  in  his  smile  and  tone 


118  PA  ULINE 

Mingled  a  touch  of  sarcasm: 

"Thank  you,  sir; 

But  let  me  add — I  fear  the  wary  foe 
Would  nab  your  regiment  napping  on  the  line. 
You  have  forgotten,  Colonel — not  so  fast — 
I  am  the  man  that  slept  upon  his  post.' 
Our  bluff  old  Colonel  laughed  and  turned  away; 
Ten  minutes  later  came  his  kind  reply — 
A  basketful  of  luxuries  from  his  mess. 

"Paul  marched  and  fought  and  marched  and  fought  again 

Patient  and  earnest  through  the  bootless  toils 

And  fiery  trials  of  that  dread  campaign 

Upon  the  Peninsula.     Twas  fitly  called 

'Campaign  of  Battles.'     Aye,  it  sorely  pierced 

The  scarred  and  bleeding  nation,  and  drew  blood 

Deep  from  her  vitals  till  she  shook  and  reeled, 

Like  some  huge  giant  staggering  to  his  fall — 

Blinded  with  blood,  yet  struggling  with  his  soul, 

And  stretching  forth  his  ponderous,  brawny  arms, 

Like  Samson  in  the  Temple,  to  o'erwhelm 

And  crush  his  mocking  enemies  in  his  fall. 

"Ah,  Malvern!   you  remember  Malvern  Hill — 
That  night  of  dreadful  butchery !     Round  the  slopes 
Of  the  entrenched  hillocks,  parked  and  aimed, 
Blazed  like  Vesuvius  when  he  bellows  fire 
And  molten  lava  into  the  midnight  heavens, 
An  hundred  crashing  cannon,  and  the  hills 
Shook  to  the  thunder  of  the  mighty  guns, 
As  ocean  trembles  to  the  bursting  throes 
Of  submarine  volcanoes;    and  the  shells 
From  the  embattled  gun-boats — fiery  fiends — 
Shrieked  on  the  night  and  through  the  ether  hissed 


PA  ULINE  119 

Like  hell's  infernals.     Line  supporting  line, 
From  base  to  summit  round  the  blazing  hills, 
Our  infantry  was  posted.     Crowned  with  fire, 
And  zoned  by  many  a  burning,  blazing  belt 
From  head  to  foot,  and  belching  sulphurous  flames, 
The  embattled  hills  appeared  a  raging  fiend — 
The  Lucifer  of  hell  let  loose  to  reign 
Over  a  world  wrapt  in  the  final  fires. 

"In  solid  columns  massed  our  frenzied  foes 
Beat  out  their  life  against  the  blazing  hills — 
Broke  and  re-formed  and  madly  charged  again, 
And  thundered  like  the  storm-lashed,  furious  sea 
Beating  in  vain  against  the  solid  cliffs. 
Foremost  in  front  our  veteran  regiment 
Breasted  the  brunt  of  battle,  but  we  bent 
Beneath  the  onsets  as  the  red-hot  bar 
Bends  to  the  sledge,  until  our  furious  foes — 
Mown  as  the  withered  prairie-grass  is  mown 
By  wild  October  fires — fell  back  and  left 
A  field  of  bloody  agony  and  death 
About  the  base,  and  victory  on  the  hills. 

"I  lost  a  score  of  riflemen  that  night; 
My  first  lieutenant — his  last  battle  over — 
Lay  half  beheaded  on  the  battle-line. 
With  lantern  dim  wide  o'er  the  slaughter-field 
I  searched  at  midnight  for  my  wounded  men, 
But  chiefly  searched  for  Paul.     An  hour  or  more 
I  sought  among  the  groaning  and  the  dead, 
Stooping  and  to  the  dim  light  turning  up 
The  ghastly  faces,  till  at  last  I  found 
Him  whom  I  sought,  and  on  the  outer  line — 
Feet  to  the  foe  and  silent  face  to  heaven — 
Death-pale  and  bleeding  from  a  ragged  wound. 


120  PA  ULINE 

Pleading  with  feeble  voice  to  let  him  be 

And  die  upon  the  field,  we  bore  him  thence; 

And  tenderly  his  comrades  carried  him, 

Sheltered  with  blankets,  on  the  weary  march 

At  dead  of  night  in  dismal  storm  begun. 

We  made  a  stand  at  Harrison's,  and  there 

With  careful  hands  we  laid  him  on  a  cot. 

Now  I  had  learned  to  prize  the  noble  boy; 

My  heart  was  touched  with  pity.     Patiently 

I  watched  over  Paul  and  bathed  his  fevered  brow 

And  pressed  the  cooling  sponge  upon  his  lips, 

And  washed  his  wound  and  gave  him  nourishment. 

'Twas  all  in  vain,  the  surgeon  said.     I  felt 

That  I  could  save  him  and  I  kept  my  watch. 

A  rib  was  crushed — beneath  it  one  could  see 

The  throbbing  vitals — torn  as  we  supposed, 

But  found  unwounded.     In  his  feverish  sleep 

He  often  moaned  and  muttered  mysteries, 

And,  dreaming,  spoke  in  low  and  tender  tones 

As  if  some  loved  one  sat  beside  his  cot. 

I  questioned  him  and  sought  the  secret  key 

To  solve  his  mystery,  but  all  in  vain. 

A  month  of  careful  nursing  turned  the  scale, 

And  he  began  to  gain  upon  his  wound. 

Propt  on  his  cot  one  evening  as  he  sat 

And  I  sat  by  him,  thus  I  questioned  him: 

'There  is  a  mystery  about  your  life 

That  I  would  gladly  fathom.     Paul,  I  think 

You  well  may  trust  me,  and  I  fain  would  hear 

The  story  of  your  life ;   right  well  I  know 

There  is  a  secret  sorrow  in  your  heart.' 

"He  turned  his  face  and  fixed  his  lustrous  eyes 
Upon  mine  own  inquiringly,  and  held 
His  gaze  upon  me  till  his  vacant  stare 


PA  ULINE  121 

Told  me  full  well  his  thoughts  had  wandered  back 

Into  the  depth  of  his  own  silent  soul; 

Then  he  looked  down  and  sadly  smiled  and  said: 

"  'Captain,  I  have  no  history — not  one  page; 

My  book  of  life  is  but  a  blotted  blank. 

Let  it  be  sealed ;   I  would  not  open  it, 

Even  to  one  who  saved  a  worthless  life, 

Only  to  add  a  few  more  leaves  in  blank 

To  the  blank  volume.     All  that  I  now  am 

I  offer  to  our  country.     If  I  live 

And  from  this  cot  walk  forth,  'twill  only  be 

'To  march  and  fight  and  march  and  fight  again.' 

Until  a  surer  aim  shall  bring  me  down 

Where  care  and  kindness  can  no  more  avail. 

Under  our  country's  flag  a  soldier's  death 

I  hope  to  die  and  leave  no  name  behind. 

My  only  wish  is  this — for  what  I  am, 

Or  have  been,  or  have  hoped  to  be,  is  now 

A  blank  misfortune.     I  will  say  no  more.' 

"I  questioned  Paul  and  pressed  him  further  still 

To  tell  his  story,  but  he  only  shook 

His  head  in  silence  sadly  and  lay  back 

And  closed  his  eyes  and  whispered — 'All  is  blank/ 

That  night  he  muttered  often  in  his  sleep; 

I  could  not  catch  the  sense  of  what  he  said; 

I  caught  a  name  that  he  repeated  oft — 

Pauline — so  softly  whispered  that  I  knew 

She  was  the  blissful  burden  of  his  dreams. 

"Two  moons  had  waxed  and  waned,  and  Paul  arose, 
Came  to  the  camp  and  shared  my  tent  and  bed. 
While  in  the  hospital  he  helpless  lay — 


122      I  PA  ULINE 

To  him  unknown,  and  as  the  choice  of  all — 

Came  his  promotion  to  the  vacant  rank 

Of  him  who  fell  at  Malvern.     But,  alas, 

Say  what  we  would  he  would  not  take  the  place. 

To  us  who  importuned  him,  he  replied: 

'Comrades  and  friends,  I  did  not  join  your  ranks 

For  honor  or  for  profit.     All  I  am — 

A  wreck  perhaps  of  what  I  might  have  been — 

I  freely  offer  in  our  country's  cause; 

And  in  her  cause  it  is  my  wish  to  serve 

A  private  soldier;   I  aspire  to  naught 

But  victory — and  there  be  better  men — 

Braver  and  hardier — such  should  have  the  place.' 

"His  comrades  cheered,  but  Paul,  methought,  was  sad. 

One  evening  as  he  sat  upon  his  couch, 

Communing  with  himself  as  he  was  wont, 

I  stood  before  him;  looking  in  his  face, 

I  said,  'Pauline — her  name  is  then — Pauline.' 

All  of  a  sudden  up  he  rose  amazed, 

And  looked  upon  me  with  such  startled  eyes 

That  I  was  pained  and  feared  that  I  had  done 

A  wrong  to  him  whom  I  had  learned  to  love. 

Then  he  sat  down  upon  his  couch  and  groaned, 

Pressing  his  hand  upon  his  wound,  and  said: 

'Captain,  I  pray  you,  tell  me  truthfully, 

Wherefore  y  outspeak  that  name.' 

"I  told  him  all 

That  I  had  heard  him  mutter  in  his  dreams. 
He  listened  calmly  to  the  close  and  said: 
'  My  friend,  if  you  have  any  kind  regard 
For  me  who  suffer  more  than  you  may  know, 
I  pray  you  utter  not  that  name  again.' 
And  thereuponjie  turned  and  hid  his  face. 


PA  ULINE  123 

jjjSlJ!* 

"There  was  a  mystery  I  might  not  fathom, 
There  was  a  history  I  might  not  hear: 
Nor  could  I  further  press  that  saddened  heart 
To  pour  its  secret  sorrow  in  my  ears. 
Thereafter  Paul  was  tenant  of  my  tent — 
Sat  at  my  mess  and  slept  upon  my  couch, 
Save  when  his  duty  called  him  from  my  side, 
And  not  a  word  escaped  his  lips  or  mine 
About  his  secret — yet  how  oft  I  found 
My  eyes  upon  him  and  my  bridled  tongue 
Prone  to  a  question;  but  that  solemn  face 
Forbade  me  and  he  wore  his  mystery. 

"At  that  stern  battle  on  Antietam's  banks, 
Where  gallant  Hooker  led  the  fierce  attack, 
Paul  bore  a  glorious  part.     Our  colors  flung 
Before  a  whirlwind  of  terrific  fire, 
Advancing  proudly  on  the  foe,  went  down. 
Grim  death  and  pale-faced  panic  seized  the  ranks. 
Paul  caught  the  flag  and  waving  it  aloft 
Rallied  our  regiment.     He  came  out  unscathed. 

"At  Fredericksburg  and  Chancellors ville  he  fought: 

Grim  in  disaster — bravest  in  defeat, 

He  leaped  not  into  danger  without  cause, 

Nor  shrunk  he  from  it  though  a  gulf  of  fire, 

When  duty  bade  him  face  it.     All  his  aim — 

To  win  the  victory;  applause  and  praise 

He  almost  hated;  grimly  he  endured 

The  fulsome  flattery  of  his  comrades  nerved 

By  his  calm  courage  up  to  manlier  deeds. 

"I  saw  him  angered  once — if  one  might  call 
His  sullen  silence  anger — as  by  night 
Across  the  Rappahannock,  from  the  field 


124  PA  ULINE 

Where  brave  and  gallant  'Stonewall'  Jackson  fell, 

With  hopeless  hearts  and  heavy  steps  we  marched. 

One  evening  after,  as  he  read  to  me 

The  fulsome  General  Order  of  our  Chief — 

Congratulating  officers  and  men 

On  their  achievements  in  the  late  defeat — 

His  handsome  face  grew  rigid  as  he  read, 

And  as  he  closed,  down  like  a  thunder-clap 

Upon  the  mess-chest  fell  his  clinched  fist: 

'Fit  pap  for  fools!'  he  said — 'an  Iron  Duke 

Had  ground  the  Southern  legions  into  dust, 

Or,  by  the  gods! — the  field  of  Chancellorsville 

Had  furnished  graves  for  ninety  thousand  men!'* 

"That  dark  disaster  sickened  many  a  soul; 

Stout  hearts  were  sad  and  cowards  cried  for  peace. 

The  vulture,  perched  hard  by  the  eagle's  crag, 

Loud  cawed  his  fellows  from  afar  to  feast. 

Ill-omened  bird — his  carrion-cries  were  vain! 

Again  our  veteran  eagles  plumed  their  wings, 

And  forth  he  fled  from  Montezuma's  shores — 

A  dastard  flight — betraying  unto  death 

Him  whom  he  dazzled  with  a  bauble  crown. 

Just  retribution  followed  swift  and  sure — 

Germania's  eagles  plucked  him  at  Sedan. 

A  gloomy  month  wore  off,  and  then  the  news 

That  Lee,  emboldened  by  his  victory, 

Had  poured  his  legions  upon  Northern  soil, 

Rung  through  the  camps,  and  thrilled  the  mighty  heart 

Of  the  Grand  Army.     Louder  than  the  roar 

Of  brazen  cannon  on  the  battle-field, 

Then  rose  and  rolled  our  thunder-rounds  of  cheers. 

We  saw  the  dawn  of  victory — we  should  meet 

*  Hooker  had  90,000  men  at  Chancellorsville. 


PA  ULINE  125 

.,-- 

Our  wary  foe  upon  familiar  ground. 

We  cheered  the  news,  we  cheered  the  marching-orders, 

We  cheered  our  brave  commander  till  the  tears 

Ran  down  his  cheeks.     Up  from  its  sullen  gloom 

Leaped  the  Grand  Army  as  if  God  had  writ 

With  fiery  finger  'thwart  the  vault  of  heaven 

A  solemn  promise  of  swift  victory. 

"We  marched.     As  rolls  the  deep,  resistless  flood 

Of  Mississippi,  when  the  rains  of  June 

Have  swelled  his  thousand  northern  fountain-lakes 

Above  their  barriers — rolls  with  restless  roar, 

Anon  through  rock-built  gorges,  and  anon 

Down  through  the  prairied  valley  to  the  sea, 

Gleaming  and  glittering  in  the  summer  sun, 

By  field  and  forest  on  his  winding  way, 

So  stretched  and  rolled  the  mighty  column  forth, 

Winding  among  the  hills  and  pouring  out 

Along  the  vernal  valleys;   so  the  sheen 

Of  moving  bayonets  glittered  in  the  sun. 

And  as  we  marched  there  rolled  upon  the  air, 

Up  from  the  vanguard-corps,  a  choral  chant, 

Feeble  at  first  and  far  and  far  away, 

But  gathering  volume  as  it  rolled  along 

And  regiment  after  regiment  joined  the  choir, 

Until  an  hundred  thousand  voices  swelled 

The  surging  chorus,  and  the  solid  hills 

Shook  to  the  thunder  of  the  mighty  song. 

And  ere  it  died  away  along  the  line, 

The  hill-tops  caught  the  chorus — rolled  away 

From  peak  to  peak  the  pealing  thunder-chant, 

Clear  as  the  chime  of  bells  on  Sabbath  morn : 

"  'John  Brown's  bod)''  lies  a-moldering  in  the  ground; 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-moldering  in  the  ground; 


126  PA  ULINE 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-moldering  in  the  ground; 
But  his  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
His  soul  is  marching  on!' 

"And  far  away 

The  mountains  echoed  and  re-echoed  still — 
"  'Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
Glory,  Glory,  Halleluia! 
His  soul  is  marching  on!' 

"Until  the  winds 

Bore  the  retreating  echoes  southward  far, 
And  the  dull  distance  murmured  in  our  ears. 

"Fast  by  the  field  where  gallant  Baker  fell, 

We  crossed  the  famous  river  and  advanced 

To  Frederick.     There  a  transitory  cloud 

Gloomed  the  Grand  Army — Hooker  was  relieved: 

Fell  from  command  at  victory's  open  gate 

The  dashing,  daring,  soul-inspiring  chief, 

The  idol  of  his  soldiers,  and  they  mourned. 

He  had  his  faults — they  were  not  faults  of  heart — 

His  gravest — fiery  valor.     Since  that  day, 

The  self-same  fault — or  virtue — crowned  a  chief 

With  laurel  plucked  on  rugged  Kenesaw. 

Envy  it  was  that  wrought  the  hero's  fall, 

Envy,  with  hydra-heads  and  serpent-tongues, 

Hissed  on  the  wolfish  clamors  of  the  Press. 

O  fickle  Fortune,  how  thy  favors  fall — 

Like  rain  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust! 


OF 


PA  ULINE  127 

0 

Throughout  the  army,  as  the  soldiers  read 

The  farewell-order,  gloomy  murmurs  ran; 

But  our  new  chieftain  cheered  our  saddened  hearts. 

"That  Meade  would  choose  his  battle-ground  we  knew, 

And  if  not  his  the  gallant  dash  and  dare 

That  on  Antietam's  bloody  battle-field 

Snatched  victory  from  defeat,  our  faith  was  firm 

That  he  would  fight  to  win,  and  hold  the  reins 

Firmly  in  hand,  nor  sacrifice  our  lives 

In  wild  assaults  and  fruitless  daring  deeds. 

"From  Taneytown,  at  mid-day,  on  the  hills 
Of  Gettysburg  we  heard  the  cannon  boom. 
Our  gallant  Hancock  rode  full  speed  away ; 
We  under  Gibbon  swiftly  following  him, 
At  midnight  camped  on  Cemetery  Hill. 
Sharp  the  initial  combat  of  the  grand 
On-coming  battle,  and  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Hung  in  blue  wreaths  above  the  silent  vale 
Between  two  hostile  armies,  mightier  far 
Then  met  upon  the  field  of  Marathon, 
Or  where  the  proud  Carthago  bowed  to  Rome. 
Hope  of  the  North  and  Liberty — the  one; 
Pride  of  the  South — the  other.     On  the  hills — 
A  rolling  range  of  rugged,  broken  hills, 
Stretching  from  Round-Top  northward,  bending  off 
And  butting  down  upon  a  silver  stream — 
In  open  field  our  veteran  regiments  lay. 
Facing  our  battle-line  and  parallel- 
Beyond  the  golden  valley  to  the  west — 
Lay  Seminary  Ridge — a  crest  of  hills 
Covered  with  emerald  groves  and  fields  of  gold 
Ripe  for  the  harvest :   on  this  rolling  range, 
As  numerous  as  the  swarming  ocean-fowl 


128  PA  ULINE 

That  perch  in  squadrons  on  some  barren  isle 
Far  in  the  Arctic  sea  when  summer's  sun 
With  slanting  spears  invades  the  icy  realm, 
The  Southern  legions  lay  upon  their  arms. 
As  countless  as  the  winter-evening  stars 
That  glint  and  glow  above  the  frosted  fields 
Twinkled  and  blazed  upon  that  crest  of  hills 
The  camp-fires  of  the  foe.     Two  mighty  hosts, 
Ready  and  panoplied  for  deadliest  war, 
And  eager  for  the  combat  where  the  prize 
Of  victory  was  empire — for  the  foe 
An  empire  borne  upon  the  bended  backs 
Of  toiling  slaves  in  millions — but  for  us, 
An  empire  grounded  on  the  rights  of  man — 
Lay  on  their  arms  awaiting  innocent  morn 
To  light  the  field  for  slaughter  to  begin. 

"Silent  above  us  spread  the  dusky  heavens, 
Silent  below  us  lay  the  smoky  vale, 
Silent  beyond,  the  dreadful  crest  of  hills. 
Anon  the  neigh  of  horse,  a  sentry's  call, 
Or  rapid  hoof-beats  of  a  flying  steed 
Bearing  an  aid  and  orders,  broke  the  dread, 
Portentous  silence.     I  was  worn  and  slept. 

"The  call  of  bugles  wakened  me.     The  dawn 
Was  stealing  softly  o'er  the  shadowy  land, 
And  morning  grew  apace.     Broad  in  the  east 
Uprose  above  the  crest  of  hazy  hills, 
Like  some  broad  shield  by  fabled  giant  borne, 
The  golden  sun,  and  flashed  upon  the  field. 
Ripe  for  the  harvest  stood  the  golden  grain, 
Nodding  on  gentle  slopes  and  dewy  hills. 
Ready  for  the  harvest  death's  grim  reapers  stood 
Waiting  the  signal  with  impatient  steel; 


PA  ULINE  129 

And  morning  passed,  and  mid-day.     Here  and  there 

The  crack  of  rifles  on  the  picket-line, 

Or  boom  of  solitary  cannon  broke 

The  myriad- voiced  and  dreadful  monotone. 

So  fled  the  anxious  hours  until  the  hills 

Sent  forth  their  silent  shadows  to  the  east — • 

And  then  their  batteries  opened  on  our  left 

Advanced  into  the  valley.     All  along 

The  rolling  crest  of  Seminary  Ridge 

Rolled  up  the  smoke  of  cannon.     Answered  then 

The  grim  artillery  on  our  chain  of  hills, 

And  heaven  was  hideous  with  the  bellowing  boom, 

The  whiz  of  shot,  the  infernal  shriek  of  shells. 

Down  from  the  hills  their  charging  columns  came 

A  glittering  mass  of  steel.     As  when  the  snow 

Piled  by  an  hundred  winters  on  the  peak 

Of  cloud-robed  Bernard  thunders  down  the  cliffs, 

Nor  rocks  nor  forests  stay  the  mighty  mass, 

And  men  and  flocks  in  terror  fly  the  death, 

So  thundering  fell  the  columns  of  the  foe, 

Crushing  through  Sickles'  corps  in  front  and  flank; 

And,  roaring  onward  like  a  mighty  wind, 

They  rushed  for  Little  Round-Top — rugged  hill, 

Key  to  our  left  and  center — all  exposed — 

Manned  by  a  single  battery  half  unmanned. 

But  Hancock  saw  the  peril.     On  stalwart  steed 

Foam-flecked,  wide-nostriled,  panting  like  a  hound, 

That  gallant  soldier — Spartan  to  the  soles — 

Came  dashing  down  where,  prone  along  the  ridge 

Behind  the  guns,  our  sheltered  regiment  lay. 

"Forward — double-quick — charge!" — And  one,  we  sprang, 

Forming  our  line  of  battle  as  we  ran. 

Like  frightened  sheep  when  howling  wolves  pursue, 

Fled  Sickles'  men  in  panic:   hard  behind 


130  PA  ULINE 

On  came  the  Rebel  columns.     Hat  in  hand 
Waving  and  shouting  to  his  eager  corps — 
Rode  daring  Longstreet  leading  on  the  foe. 

"Where  yonder  field-wall  bounds  the  trampled  wheat 
By  grove  and  meadow,  see — among  the  trees — 
Their  bayonets  gleam  advancing.     Line  on  line, 
Column  on  column,  in  the  field  beyond, 
Their  hurrying  ranks  crowd  glittering  on  and  on. 
High  at  the  head  their  flaunting  colors  fly; 
High  o'er  the  roar  their  wild,  triumphant  yell 
Shrills  like  the  scream  of  panthers. 

"Down  the  slope 

Like  maddened  tigers  springing  at  the  hounds, 
We  sprang  and  met  them  at  the  broken  wall: 
Colors  to  colors — steel  to  steel — we  met, 
And  fought  like  Spartans  and  like  Spartans  fell. 
Even  as  a  cyclone,  growling  thunder,  roars 
Down  through  a  dusky  forest,  and  its  path 
Is  strown  with  broken  and  uprooted  pines 
Promiscuous  piled  in  broad  and  broken  swaths, 
So  crashed  our  volleys  through  their  serried  ranks, 
Mowing  great  swaths  of  death;   yet  on  and  on, 
Closing  the  gaps  and  yelling  like  the  fiends 
That  Dante  heard  along  the  gulf  of  hell, 
Still  came  our  frenzied  foes.     A  cloud  of  smoke — 
Dense,  sulphurous,  stifling — covered  all  our  ranks. 
Our  steady,  deadly  rifles  crackled  still, 
And  still  their  crashing  volleys  rolled  and  roared. 
Our  rifles  blazed  upon  the  blaze  below; 
The  blaze  below  upon  the  blaze  above, 
And  in  the  blaze  the  buzz  of  myriad  bees 
Whose  stings  were  deadlier  than  the  Libyan  asp. 


PA  ULINE  131 

Five  times  our  colors  fell — five  times  arose 
Flapping  defiance  in  their  very  teeth ! 

' '  We  hold  the  perilous  breach ;  on  either  hand 
Our  foes  out-flank  us,  leap  the  broken  wall 
And  pour  their  deadly,  enfilading  fire. 
God  shield  our  shattered  ranks! — God  help  us! — 

"Ho! 

'  Stars  and  Stripes '  on  the  right ! — Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — • 
The  brave  Nineteenth  of  the  old  Bay  State! — hurrah! 
Cannon-roar  sharp  on  the  left! — Our  own  Gibbon's  bull-dogs 

are  these 

Growling  hot  hell-fire! — See! — like  sickled  corn 
The  close-ranked  foeman  fall  in  toppling  swaths! 
But  still  with  hurried  steps  and  steady  steel 
They  close  the  gaps — like  madmen  they  press  on! 
With  one  wild  yell  they  rush  upon  our  ranks. 
Ah — from  our  lines  a  sheet  of  crackling  fire 
Scorches  their  grimy  faces — back  they  reel 
And  stagger — down  and  down — a  writhing  mass 
Of  slaughter  and  defeat! 

"Leaped  on  the  wall 

A  thousand  Blues  and  swung  their  hats  in  air, 
Thundering  their  wild  Hurrah  above  the  roar 
And  crash  of  cannon ! — Victory  was  ours. 
Back  to  his  crest  of  hills  the  baffled  foe 
Reluctant  turned  and  fled  the  storm  of  death. 

"The  smoke  of  battle  floated  from  the  field, 
And  lo  the  woodside  piled  with  slaughter-heaps! 
And  lo  the  meadow  dotted  with  the  slain! 
And  lo  the  ranks  of  dead  and  dying  men 
That  fighting  fell  along  the  broken  wall! 


132  PA  ULINE 

"Only  a  handful  of  my  men  remained; 

The  rest  lay  dead  or  wounded  on  the  field; 

Nor  skulked  their  captain,  but  by  grace  was  spared. 

Behold  the  miracle !— This  Bible  holds, 

Embedded  in  its  leaves,  the  Rebel  lead 

Aimed  at  my  heart.     But  here  a  scratch  and  there — 

Not  worth  the  mention  where  so  many  fell. 

Paul,  foremost  ever  in  the  deadly  hail, 

As  if  protected  by  the  hand  of  Heaven, 

Escaped  unscathed. 

"We  camped  upon  the  hill. 
Night  hovered  o'er  us  on  her  dusky  wings; 
Then  all  along  our  lines  upon  the  hills 
Blazed  up  the  evening  camp-fires.     Facing  us 
Beyond  the  smoke-robed  valley  sparkled  up 
A  chain  of  fires  on  Seminary  Ridge. 
A  hum  of  mingled  voices  filled  the  air. 
As  when  upon  the  vast,  hoarse-moaning  sea 
And  all  along  the  rock-built  somber  shore 
Murmurs  the  menace  of  the  coming  storm — 
The  muttering  of  the  tempest  from  afar, 
The  plash  and  seethe  of  surf  upon  the  sand, 
The  roll  of  distant  thunder  in  the  heavens, 
Unite  and  blend  in  one  prevailing  voice — 
So  rose  the  mingled  murmurs  of  our  camps, 
So  rose  the  groans  and  moans  of  wounded  men 
Along  the  slope  and  valley,  and  so  rolled 
From  yonder  frowning  parallel  of  hills 
The  muttered  menace  of  our  baffled  foes; 
And  so  from  camp  to  camp  and  hill  to  hill 
Rolled  the  deep  mutter  and  the  dreadful  moan 
Of  an  hundred  thousand  voices  blent  in  one. 

"That  night  a  multitude  of  friends  and  foes 
Slept  soundly — but  they  slept  to  wake  no  more. 


PA  ULINE  133 

But  few  indeed  among  the  living  slept; 
We  lay  upon  our  arms  and  courted  sleep 
With  open  eyes  and  ears:   the  fears  and  hopes 
That  centered  in  the  half-fought  battle  held 
The  balm  of  slumber  from  our  weary  souls. 
Anon  the  rattle  of  the  random  fire 
Broke  on  our  drowsy  ears  and  startled  us, 
As  one  is  startled  by  some  horrid  dream; 
Whereat  old  veterans  muttered  in  their  sleep. 

"Midnight  had  passed,  and  I  lay  wakeful  still, 
When  Paul  arose  and  sat  upon  the  sward. 
He  said :    '  I  cannot  sleep ;   unbidden  thoughts 
That  will  not  down  crowd  on  my  restless  brain. 
Captain,  I  know  not  how,  but  still  I  know 
That  I  shall  see  but  one  more  sunrise.     Morn 
Will  bring  the  clash  of  arms — to-morrow's  sun 
Will  look  upon  unnumbered  ghastly  heaps 
And  gory  ranks  of  dead  and  dying  men; 
And  ere  it  sink  beyond  the  western  hills 
Up  from  this  field  will  roll  a  mighty  shout 
Victorious,  echoed  over  all  the  land, 
Proclaiming  joy  to  freemen  everywhere. 
And  I  shall  fall.     I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  know  it — but  I  feel  it  in  my  soul. 
I  pray  that  death  may  spare  me  till  I  hear 
Our  shout  of  "  Victory!"   rolling  over  these  hills: 
Then  will  I  close  mine  eyes  and  die  in  peace.' 

"I  lightly  said — 'Sheer  superstition,  Paul; 

I'll  wager  a  month's  pay  you'll  live  to  fight 

A  dozen  battles  yet.     They  ill  become 

A  gallant  soldier  on  the  battle  field — 

Such  grandam  supersitions.     You  have  fought 

Ever  like  ajiero — do  youjalter  now?' 


134  PA  ULINE 

"  'Captain,'  he  said,  'I  shall  not  falter  now, 
But  gladlier  will  I  hail  the  rising  sun. 
Death  has  no  terror  for  a  heart  like  mine: 
Say  what  you  may  and  call  it  what  you  will — 
I  know  that  I  shall  fall  to  rise  no  more 
Before  the  sunset  of  the  coming  day. 
If  this  be  superstition — still  I  know; 
If  this  be  fear  it  will  not  hold  me  back.' 
I  answered: 

"  'Friend,  I  hope  this  prophecy 
Will  prove  you  a  false  prophet;  but,  my  Paul, 
Have  you  no  farewell  for  your  friends  at  home? 
No  message  for  a  nearer,  dearer  one?' 

"  'None;   there  is  none  I  knew  in  other  days 
Knows  where  or  what  I  am.     So  let  it  be. 
If  there  be  those — not  many — who  may  care 
For  one  who  cares  so  little  for  himself, 
Surely  my  soldier-name  in  the  gazette 
Among  the  killed  will  bring  no  pang  to  them. 
And  then  he  laid  himself  upon  the  sward ; 
Perhaps  he  slept — I  know  not,  for  fatigue 
Overcame  me  and  I  slept. 

"The  picket  guns 

At  random  firing  wakened  me.     The  morn 
Came  stealing  softly  over  the  somber  hills ; 
Dark  clouds  of  smoke  hung  hovering  on  the  field, 
Blood-red  as  risen  from  a  sea  of  blood, 
The  tardy  sun  as  if  in  dread  arose, 
And  hid  his  face  in  the  uprising  smoke. 
As  when  the  pale  moon,  envious  of  the  glow 
And  gleam  and  glory  of  the  god  of  day, 
Creeps  in  by  stealth  between  the  earth  and  him, 


PA  ULINE  135 

** 
Eclipsing  all  his  glory,  and  the  green 

Of  hills  and  dales  is  changed  to  yellowish  dun, 
So  fell  the  strange  and  lurid  light  of  morn. 
And  as  I  gazed  I  heard  the  hunger-cries 
Of  vultures  circling  on  their  dusky  wings 
Above  the  smoke-hid  valley;  then  they  plunged 
To  perch  and  gorge  upon  the  slaughter-heaps: 
As  at  the  Buddhist  temples  in  Siam 
Whereto  the  hideous  vultures  flock  to  feast 
With  famished  dogs  upon  the  pauper  dead. 

"The  day  wore  on.     Two  mighty  armies  stood 
Defiant — watching — dreading  to  assault; 
Each  hoping  that  the  other  would  assault 
And  madly  dash  aga'nst  its  glittering  steel. 
As  in  the  jungles  of  the  Chambeze — 
Glaring  defiance  with  their  fiery  eyes — 
Two  tawny  lions — rival  monarchs — meet 
And  fright  the  forest  with  their  horrid  roar; 
But  ere  they  close  in  bloody  combat  crouch 
And  wait  and  watch  for  vantage  in  attack; 
So  on  their  bannered  hills  the  opposing  hosts, 
Eager  to  grapple  in  the  tug  of  death, 
Waited  and  watched  for  vantage  in  the  fight. 
Noon  came.     The  fire  of  pickets  died  away. 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Seminary  Ridge, 
For  there  our  sullen  foemen — park  on  park — 
Had  massed  their  grim  artillery  on  our  lines. 
Hoarse  voices  sunk  to  whispers  in  our  ranks; 
The  rugged  hills  stood  listening  in  awe; 
So  dread  the  ominous  silence  that  I  heard 
The  hearts  of  comrades  throbbing  along  the  line. 

"Up  from  yon  battery  curled  a  cloud  of  smoke; 
Shrieked  o'er  our  heads  a  solitary  shell; — 


136  PA  ULINE 

Then  instantly  in  horrid  concert  roared 

An  hundred  cannon  on  the  Rebel  hills — 

Hurling  their  hissing  thunderbolts — and  then 

An  hundred  bellowing  cannon  from  our  lines 

Thundered  their  iron  answer.     Horrible 

Rolled  in  the  heavens  the  infernal  thunders — rolled 

From  hill  to  hill  the  reverberating  roar, 

As  if  the  earth  were  bursting  with  the  throes 

Of  some  vast  pent  volcano;   rocked  and  reeled    , 

As  in  an  earthquake-shock,  the  solid  hills. 

Anon  huge  fragments  of  the  hillside  rocks, 

And  limbs  and  splinters  of  shot-shattered  trees 

Danced  in  the  smoke  like  demons;   hissed  and  how'.ed 

The  crashing  shell-storm  bursting  over  us. 

Prone  on  the  earth  awaiting  the  grand  charge, 

To  which  we  knew  the  heavy  cannonade 

Was  but  a  prelude,  for  two  hours  we  lay — 

Two  hours  that  tried  the  very  souls  of  men — 

And  many  a  brave  man  never  rose  again. 

Then  ceased  our  guns  to  swell  the  infernal  roar; 

The  roll  and  crash  of  cannon  in  our  front 

Lulled,  and  we  heard  the  foe-man's  bugle-calls. 

Then  from  the  slopes  of  Seminary  Ridge 

Poured  down  the  storming  columns  of  the  foe. 

As  when  the  rain-clouds  from  the  rim  of  heaven 

Are  gathered  by  the  four  contending  winds, 

And  madly  whirled  until  they  meet  and  clash 

On  mountain-peaks  and  burst, — down  pours  a  sea 

Roaring  through  canon,  rocky  gorge  and  glen, 

So  poured  the  surging  columns  of  our  foes 

Adown  the  slopes  and  spread  along  the  vale 

In  glittering  ranks  of  battle — line  on  line — 

Mile-long.     Above  the  roar  of  cannon  rose 

In  one  wild  yell  the  Rebel  battle-cry. 


PA  ULINE  137 

Flash  in  the  sun  their  serried  ranks  of  steel; 

Before  them  swarm  a  cloud  of  skirmishers. 

That  eager  host  the  gallant  Pickett  leads; 

He  right  and  left  his  fiery  charger  wheels; 

Steadies  the  lines  with  clarion  voice ;   anon 

His  outstertched  saber  gleaming  points  the  way. 

As  mid  the  myriad  twinkling  stars  of  heaven 

Flashes  the  blazing  comet,  and  a  column 

Of  fiery  fury  follows  it,  so  flashed 

The  dauntless  chief,  so  followed  his  wild  host. 

"We  waited  grim  and  silent  till  they  crossed 

The  center  and  began  the  dread  ascent. 

Then  brazen  bugles  rang  the  clarion  call; 

Arose  as  one  twice  twenty  thousand  men, 

And  all  our  hillside  blazed  with  crackling  fire. 

With  sudden  crash  and  simultaneous  roar 

An  hundred  cannon  opened  instantly, 

And  all  the  vast  hills  shuddered  under  us. 

Yelling  their  mad  defiance  to  our  fire 

Still  on  and  upward  came  our  daring  foes 

As  when  upon  the  wooded  mountain-side 

The  unchained  Loki*  riots  and  the  winds 

Of  an  autumnal  tempest  lash  the  flames, 

Whirling  the  burning  fragments  through  the  air — 

Huge  blazing  limbs  and  tops  of  blasted  pines — 

Mowing  wide  swaths  with  circling  scythes  of  fire, 

So  fell  our  fire  upon  the  advancing  host, 

And  lashed  their  ranks  and  mowed  them  into  heaps, 

Cleaving  broad  gaps  of  death.     Still  on  and  on 

And  up  they  come  undaunted,  closing  up 

The  ghastly  gaps  and  firing  as  they  come. 

As  if  protected  by  the  hand  of  heaven, 

Rides  at  their  head  their  gallant  leader  still; 

*Norse  fire-fiend. 


138  PA  ULINE 

The^tempest  drowns  his  voice — his  flaming  sword 
Gleams  in  the  flash  of  rifles.     One  wild  yell — 
Swelled  by  ten  thousand  hideous  voices,  shrills, 
And  through  the  battle-smoke  the  bravest  burst. 
Flutters  their  tattered  banner  on  our  wall! 
Thunders  their  shout  of  victory !     Appalled 
Our  serried  ranks  are  broken — but  in  vain! 
On  either  hand  our  batteries  enfilade, 
Crushing  great  gaps  along  the  stalwart  lines; 
In  front  our  deadly  rifles  volley  still, 
Mowing  the  toppling  swaths  of  daring  men. 
Behold— they  falter!— Ho!— they  break!— they  fly! 
With: one  wild  cheer  that  shakes  the  solid  hills 
Spring  to  the  charge  our  eager  infantry: 
Headlong  we  press  them  down  the  bloody  slope, 
Headlong  they  fall  before  our  leveled  steel 
And  break  in  wild  disorder,  cast  away 
Their  arms  and  fly  in  panic.     All  the  vale 
Isjspread  with  slaughter  and  wild  fugitives. 
Wide^o'er  the  field  the  scattered  foemen  fly; 
Dread  havoc  and  mad  terror  swift  pursue 
Till  battle  is  but  slaughter.     Thousands  fall — 
Thousands  surrender,  and  the  Southern  flag 
Is  trailed  upon  the  field. 

"The  day  was  ours! 

And  well  we  knew  the  worth  of  victory. 
Loud  rolled  the  rounds  of  cheers  from  corps  to  corps; 
Comrades  embraced  each  other;   iron  men 
Shed  tears  of  joy  like  women;   men  profane 
Fell  on  their  knees  and  thanked  Almighty  God. 
Then  'Hail  Columbia'  rang  the  brazen  horns, 
And  all  the  hill-tops  shouted  unto  heaven; 
The  welkin  shouted  to  the  shouting  hills — 
And  heavens  and  hill-tops  shouted  'Victory!' 


PA  ULINE  139 

•^ 

"Night  with  her  pall  soon  wrapped  the  bloody  field. 

The  little  remnants  of  our  regiment 

Were  gathered  and  encamped  upon  the  hill. 

Paul  was  not  with  them,  and  they  could  not  tell 

Aught  of  him.     I  had  seen  him  in  the  fight 

Bravest  of  all  the  brave.     I  saw  him  last 

When  first  the  foremost  foemen  reached  our  wall, 

Thrusting  them  off  with  bloody  bayonet, 

And  shouting  to  his  comrades,  'Steady,  men!' 

Sadly  I  wandered  back  where  we  had  met 

The  onset  of  the  foe.     The  rounds  of  cheers 

Repeated  oft  still  swept  from  corps  to  corps, 

And  as  I  passed  along  the  line  I  saw 

Our  dying  comrades  raise  their  weary  heads, 

And  cheer  with  feeble  voices.     Even  in  death 

The  cry  of  victory  thrilled  their  hearts  again. 

Paul  lay  upon  the  ground  where  he  had  fought, 

Fast  by  the  flag  that  floated  on  the  line. 

He  slept — or  seemed  to  sleep,  but  on  his  brow 

Sat  such  a  deadly  pallor  that  I  feared 

My  Paul  would  never  march  and  fight  again. 

I  raised  his  head — he  woke  as  from  a  dream; 

I  said,  'Be  quiet — you  are  badly  hurt; 

I'll  call  a  surgeon;   we  will  dress  your  wound.' 

He  gravely  said: 

"  "Tis  vain;  for  I  have  done 

With  camp  and  march  and  battle.     Ere  the  dawn 
Will  I  be  mustered  out  of  your  command, 
And  mustered  into  the  Grand  Host  of  heaven.' 

"I  sought  a  surgeon  on  the  field  and  found; 
With  me  he  came  and  opened  the  bloody  blouse, 
Felt  the  dull  pulse  and  sagely  shook  his  head. 
A  musket  ball  had  done  its  deadly  work; 


140  PA  ULINE 

There  was  no  hope,  he  said,  the  man  might  live 
A  day  perchance — but  had  no  need  of  him. 
I  called  his  comrades  and  we  carried  him, 
Stretched  on  his  blankets,  gently  to  our  camp, 
And  laid  him  by  the  camp-fire.     As  the  light 
Fell  on  Paul's  face  he  took  my  hand  and  said: 


PAULINE 
PART  II 
PAUL'S  HISTORY 

"  Captain,  I  hear  the  cheers.     My  soul  is  glad. 
My  days  are  numbered,  but  this  glorious  day — 
Like  some  far  beacon  on  a  shadowy  cape 
That  cheers  at  night  the  storm-belabored  ships — • 
Will  light  the  misty  ages  from  afar. 
This  field  shall  be  the  Mecca.     Here  shall  rise 
A  holier  than  the  Caaba  where  men  kiss 
The  sacred  stone  that  flaming  fell  from  heaven. 
But  O  how  many  sad  and  aching  hearts 
Will  mourn  the  loved  ones  never  to  return! 
Thank  God — no  heart  will  hope  for  my  return! 
Thank  God — no  heart  will  mourn  because  I  die ! 
Captain,  at  life's  mid-summer  flush  and  glow, 
For  him  to  die  who  leaves  his  golden  hopes, 
His  mourning  friends  and  idol-love  behind, 
It  must  be  hard  and  seem  a  cruel  thing. 
After  the  victory — upon  this  field — 
For  me  to  die  hath  more  of  peace  than  pain; 
For  I  shall  leave  no  golden  hopes  behind, 
No  idol-love  to  pine  because  I  die, 
No  friends  to  wait  my  coming  or  to  mourn. 
They  wait  my  coming  in  the  world  beyond; 
And  wait  not  long,  for  I  am  almost  there. 

141 


142  PA  ULINE 

Tis  but  a  gasp,  and  I  shall  pass  the  bound 
'Twixt  life  and  death — through  death  to  life  again- 
Where  sorrow  cometh  never.     Pangs  and  pains 
Of  flesh  or  spirit  will  not  pierce  me  there ; 
And  two  will  greet  me  from  the  jasper  walls — 
God's  angels — with  a  song  of  holy  peace, 
And  haste  to  meet  me  at  the  pearly  gate, 
And  kiss  the  death-damp  from  my  silent  lips, 
And  lead  me  through  the  golden  avenues — 
Singing  Hosanna — to  the  Great  White  Throne." 

So  there  he  paused  and  calmly  closed  his  eyes, 
And  silently  I  sat  and  held  his  hand. 
After  a  time,  when  we  were  left  alone, 
He  spoke  again  with  calmer  voice  and  said: 
"  Captain,  you  thrice  have  asked  my  history, 
And  I  as  oft  refused.     There  is  no  cause 
Why  I  should  longer  hold  it  from  my  friend 
Who  reads  the  closing  chapter.     It  may  teach 
One  soul  to  lean  upon  the  arm  of  Christ — 
That  hope  and  happiness  find  anchorage 
Only  in  heaven.     While  my  lonesome  life 
Saw  death  but  dimly  in  the  dull  distance 
My  lips  were  sealed  to  the  unhappy  tale; 
Under  my  pride  I  hid  a  heavy  heart. 

"I  was  ambitious  in  my  boyhood  days, 

And  dreamed  of  fame  and  honors — misty  fogs 

That  climb  at  morn  the  rugged  cliffs  of  life, 

Veiling  the  ragged  rocks  and  gloomy  chasms, 

And  shaping  airy  castles  on  the  top 

With  bristling  battlements  and  looming  towers, 

But  melt  away  into  ethereal  air 

Beneath  the  blaze  of  the  mid-autumn  sun, 

Till  cliffs  and  chasms  and  all  the  ragged  rocks 


PA  ULINE  143 

«* 

Are  bare,  and  all  the  castles  crumbled  away. 

"There  winds  a  river  'twixt  two  chains  of  hills — 

Fir-capped  and  rugged  monuments  of  time; 

A  level  vale  of  rich  alluvial  land, 

Washed  from  the  slopes  through  circling  centuries, 

And  sweet  with  clover  and  the  hum  of  bees, 

Lies  broad  between  the  rugged,  somber  hills. 

Beneath  a  shade  of  willows  and  of  elms 

The  river  slumbers  in  this  meadowy  lap. 

Down  from  the  right  there  winds  a  babbling  branch, 

Cleaving  a  narrower  valley  through  the  hills. 

A  grand  bald-headed  hill-cone  on  the  right 

Looms  like  a  patriarch,  and  above  the  branch 

There  towers  another.     I  have  seen  the  day 

When  those  bald  heads  were  plumed  with  lofty  pines. 

Below  the  branch  and  near  the  river  bank, 

Hidden  among  the  elms  and  butternuts, 

The  dear  old  cottage  stands  where  I  was  born. 

An  English  ivy  clambers  to  the  eaves; 

An  English  willow  planted  by  my  hand 

Now  spreads  its  golden  branches  o'er  the  roof. 

Not  far  below  the  cottage  thrives  a  town, 

A  busy  town  of  mills  and  merchandise — 

Belle  Meadows — thriftiest  village  of  the  vale. 

Behind  it  looms  the  hill-cone,  and  in  front 

The  peaceful  river  winds  its  silent  way. 

Beyond  the  river  spreads  a  level  plain — • 

Once  hid  with  somber  firs — a  tangled  marsh — 

Now  beautiful  with  fields  and  cottages, 

And  sweet  in  spring-time  with  the  blooming  plum, 

And  white  with  apple-bloossms  blown  like  snow. 

Beyond  the  plain  a  lower  chain  of  hills, 

In  summer  gemmed  with  fields  of  golden  grain 


144  PA  ULINE 

Set  in  the  emerald  of  the  beechen  woods. 
In  other  days  the  village  school-house  stood 
Below  our  cottage  on  a  grassy  mound 
That  sloped  away  unto  the  river's  marge; 
And  on  the  slope  a  cluster  of  tall  pines 
Crowning  a  copse  of  beech  and  cherry-trees. 
There  in  my  boyhood  days  I  went  to  school; 
A  maiden  mistress  ruled  the  little  realm; 
She  taught  the  rudiments  to  rompish  rogues, 
And  walked  a  queen  with  magic  wand  of  birch. 
My  years  were  hardly  ten  when  father  died. 
Sole  tenants  of  our  humble  cottage  home 
My  sorrowing  mother  and  myself  remained. 
But  she  was  all  economy,  and  kept 
With  my  poor  aid  a  comfortable  house. 
I  was  her  idol  and  she  wrought  at  night 
To  keep  me  at  my  books,  and  used  to  boast 
That  I  should  rise  above  our  humble  lot. 
How  oft  I  listened  to  her  hopeful  words — 
Poured  from  the  fountain  of  a  mother's  heart — 
Until  I  longed  to  wing  the  sluggard  years 
That  bore  me  on  to  what  I  hoped  to  be. 

"We  had  a  garden-plot  behind  the  house — 

Beyond,  an  orchard  and  a  pasture-lot; 

In  front  a  narrow  meadow — here  and  there 

Shaded  with  elms  and  branching  butternuts. 

In  spring  and  summer  in  the  garden-plot 

I  wrought  my  morning  and  my  evening  hours 

And  kept  myself  at  school — no  idle  boy. 

"One  bright  May  morning  when  the  robins  sang 
There  came  to  school  a  stranger  queenly  fair, 
With  eyes  that  shamed  the  ehtereal  blue  of  heaven, 
And  golden  hair  in  ringlets — cheeks  as  soft, 


PA  ULINE  145 

MJR 

As  fresh  and  rosy  as  the  velvet  blush 

Of  summer  sunrise  on  the  dew-damp  hills. 

Hers  was  the  name  I  muttered  in  my  dreams. 

For  days  my  bashful  heart  held  me  aloof 

Although  her  senior  by  a  single  year; 

But  we  were  brought  together  oft  in  class, 

And  when  she  learned  my  name  she  spoke  to  me, 

And  then  my  tongue  was  loosed  and  we  were  friends. 

Before  the  advent  of  the  steeds  of  steel 

Her  sire — a  shrewd  and  calculating  man — 

Had  lately  come  and  purchased  timbered-lands 

And  idle  mills,  and  made  the  town  his  home. 

And  he  was  well-to-do  and  growing  rich, 

And  she  her  father's  pet  and  only  child. 

In  mind  and  stature  for  two  happy  years 

We  grew  together  at  the  village  school. 

We  grew  together! — aye,  our  tender  hearts 

There  grew  together  till  they  beat  as  one. 

Her  tasks  were  mine,  and  mine  alike  were  hers; 

We  often  stole  away  among  the  pines — 

That  stately  cluster  on  the  sloping  hill — 

And  conned  our  lessons  from  the  selfsame  book, 

And  learned  to  love  each  other  o'er  our  tasks, 

While  in  the  pine-tops  piped  the  oriole, 

And  from  his  branch  the  chattering  squirrel  chid 

Our  guileless  love  and  artless  innocence. 

'Twas  childish  love  perhaps,  but  day  by  day 

It  grew  into  our  souls  as  we  grew  up. 

Then  there  was  opened  in  the  prospering  town 

A  grammar-school,  and  thither  went  Pauline. 

I  missed  her  and  was  sad  for  many  a  day, 

Till  mother  gave  me  leave  to  follow  her. 

In  Autumn — in  vacation — she  would  come 

With  girlish  pretext  to  our  cottage  home. 


146  PAULINE 

She  often  brought  my  mother  httle  gifts, 

And  cheered  her  with  sweet  songs  and  happy  words; 

And  I  would  pluck  the  fairest  meadow-dowers 

To  grace  a  garland  for  her  golden  hair, 

And  fill  her  basket  from  the  butternuts 

That  flourished  in  our  little  meadow-field. 

I  found  in  her  all  I  had  dreamed  of  heaven. 

So  garlanded  with  latest-blooming  ilowers, 

Chanting  the  mellow  music  of  our  hopes, 

The  silver-sandaled  Autumn-hours  tripped  by. 

And  mother  learned  to  love  her;   but  she  feared, 

Knowing  her  heart  and  mine,  that  one  rude  hand 

Might  break  our  hopes  asunder.     Like  a  thief 

I  often  crept  about  her  father's  house, 

Under  the  evening  shadows,  eager-eyed, 

Peering  for  one  dear  face,  and  lingered  late 

To  catch  the  silver  music  of  one  voice 

That  from  her  chamber  nightly  rose  to  heaven. 

Her  father's  face  I  feared — a  silent  man, 

Cold-faced,  imperative,  by  nature  prone 

To  set  his  will  against  the  beating  world; 

Warm-hearted  but  heart  crusted. 


"Two  years  more 

Thus  wore  away.     Pauline  grew  up  a  queen. 
A  shadow  fell  across  my  sunny  path; — 
A  hectic  flush  burned  on  my  mother's  cheeks; 
She  daily  failed  and  nearer  drew  to  death. 
Pauline  would  often  come  with  sun-lit  face, 
Cheating  the  day  of  half  its  languid  hours 
With  cheering  chapters  from  the  holy  book, 
And  border  tales  and  wizard  minstrelsy: 
And  mother  loved  her  all  the  better  for  it. 
With  feeble  hands  upon  our  sad-bowed  heads, 


PA  ULINE  147 

And  in  a  voice  all  tremulous  with  tears, 
She  said  to  us:   'Dear  children,  love  each  other — 
Bear  and  forbear,  and  come  to  me  in  heaven;' 
And  praying  for  us  daily — drooped  and  died. 

"After  the  sad  and  solemn  funeral, 

Alone  and  weeping  and  disconsolate, 

I  sat  at  evening  by  the  cottage  door. 

I  felt  as  if  a  dark  and  bitter  fate 

Had  fallen  on  me  in  my  tender  years. 

I  seemed  an  aimless  wanderer  doomed  to  grope 

In  vain  among  the  darkling  years  and  die. 

One  only  star  shone  through  the  shadowy  mists. 

The  moon  that  wandered  in  the  gloomy  heavens 

Was  robed  in  shrouds;   the  rugged,  looming  hills 

Looked  desolate; — the  silent  river  seemed 

A  somber  chasm,  while  my  own  pet  lamb, 

Mourning  disconsolate  among  the  trees, 

As  if  he  followed  some  dim  phantom-form, 

Bleated  in  vain  and  would  not  heed  my  call. 

On  weary  hands  I  bent  my  weary  head; 

In  gloomy  sadness  fell  my  silent  tears. 

"  An  angel's  hand  was  laid  upon  my  head — 
There  in  the  moonlight  stood  my  own  Pauline — 
Angel  of  love  and  hope  and  holy  faith — 
She  flashed  upon  me  bowed  in  bitter  grief, 
As  falls  the  meteor  down  the  night  clad  heavens — 
In  silence.     Then  about  my  neck  she  clasped 
Her  loving  arms  and  on  my  shoulder  drooped 
Her  golden  tresses,  while  her  silent  tears 
Fell  warm  upon  my  cheek  like  summer  rain. 
Heart  clasped  to  heart  and  cheek  to  cheek  we  sat; 
The  moon  no  longer  gloomed — her  face  was  cheer; 
The  rugged  hills  were  old-time  friends  again; 


148  PA  ULINE 

The  peaceful  river  slept  beneath  the  moon, 
And  my  pet  lamb  came  bounding  to  our  side 
And  kissed  her  hand  and  mine  as  he  was  wont. 
Then  I  awoke  as  from  a  dream  and  said: 
'Tell  me,  beloved,  why  you  come  to  me 
In  this  dark  hour — so  late — so  desolate?' 
And  she  replied: 

1  '  My  darling,  can  I  rest 
While  you  are  full  of  sorrow?     In  my  ear 
A  spirit  seemed  to  whisper — "Arise  and  go 
To  comfort  him  disconsolate."     Tell  me,  Paul, 
Why  should  you  mourn  your  tender  life  away  ? 
I  will  be  mother  to  you;   nay,  dear  boy, 
I  will  be  more.     Come,  brush  away  these  tears.' 

"My  heart  was  full;   I  kissed  her  pleading  eyes: 

'You  are  an  angel  sent  by  one  in  heaven,' 

I  said,  '  to  heal  my  heart,  but  I  have  lost 

More  than  you  know.     The  cruel  hand  of  death 

Hath  left  me  orphan,  friendless — poor  indeed, 

Saving  the  precious  jewel  of  your  love. 

And  what  to  do?     I  know  not  what  to  do, 

I  feel  so  broken  by  a  heavy  hand. 

My  mother  hoped  that  I  would  work  my  way 

To  competence  and  honor  at  the  bar. 

But  shall  I  toil  in  poverty  for  years 

To  learn  a  science  that  so  seldom  yields 

Or  wealth  or  honor  save  to  silvered  heads  ? 

I  know  that  path  to  fame  and  fortune  leads 

Through  thorns  and  brambles  over  ragged  rocks; 

But  can  I  follow  in  the  common  path 

Trod  by  the  millions,  never  to  lift  my  head 

Above  the  busy  hordes  that  delve  and  drudge 

For  bear  existence  in  this  bitter  world — 


PA  ULINE  149 

'$*§& 
And  be  a  mite,  a  midge,  a  worthless  worm, 

No  more  distinguished  from  the  common  mass 

Than  one  poor  polyp  in  the  coral  isle 

Is  marked  amid  the  myriads  teeming  there? 

Yet  'tis  not  for  myself.     For  you,  Pauline, 

Far  up  the  slippery  heights  of  wealth  and  fame 

Would  I  climb  bravely;   but  if  I  would  climb 

By  any  art  or  science,  I  must  train 

Unto  the  task  my  feet  for  many  years, 

Else  I  should  slip  and  fall  from  rugged  ways, 

Too  badly  bruised  to  ever  mount  again.' 

Then  she: 

"  'O  Paul,  if  wealth  were  mine  to  give! 

0  if  my  father  could  but  know  my  heart ! 

But  fear  not,  Paul,  our  Father  reigns  in  heaven. 
Follow  your  bent — 'twill  lead  you  out  aright; 
The  highest  mountain  lessens  as  we  climb; 
Persistent  courage  wins  the  smile  of  fate. 
Apply  yourself  to  law  and  master  it, 
And  I  will  wait.     This  sad  and  solemn  hour 
Is  dark  with  doubt  and  gloom,  but  by  and  by 
The  clouds  will  lift  and  you  will  see  God's  face. 
For  there  is  one  in  heaven  whose  pleading  tongue 
Will  pray  for  blessings  on  her  only  son 
Of  Him  who  heeds  the  little  sparrow's  fall; — 
And  O  if  He  will  listen  to  my  prayers, 
The  gates  of  heaven  shall  echo  to  my  voice 
Morning  and  evening, — only  keep  your  heart.' 

1  said: 

;  '  Pauline,  your  prayers  had  rolled  away 
The  stone  that  closed  the  tomb  of  Him — our  Christ; 
And  while  they  rise  to  heaven  for  my  success 
I  cannot  doubt,  or  I  should  doubt  my  God. 


150  PA  ULINE  ;, 

I  think  I  see  a  pathway  through  this  gloom; 
I  have  a  kinsman ' — and  I  told  her  where — 
'A  lawyer;   I  have  heard  my  mother  say — 
A  self-made  man  with  charitable  heart; 
And  I  might  go  and  study  under  him; 
I  think  he  would  assist  me.' 

"Then  she  sighed: 

'Paul,  can  you  leave  me?     You  may  study  here. 
And  here  you  are  among  your  boyhood  friends, 
And  here  I  should  be  near  to  cheer  you  on.' 

"  I  promised  her  that  I  would  think  of  it — 
Would  see  what  prospect  offered  in  the  town; 
And  then  we  walked  together  half-embraced, 
But  when  we  neared  her  vine-arched  garden  gate, 
She  bade  me  stay  and  kissed  me  a  good-night 
And  bounded  through  the  moonlight  like  a  fawn. 
I  watched  her  till  she  flitted  from  my  sight, 
Then  slowly  homeward  turned  my  lingering  steps. 
I  wrote  my  kinsman  on  the  morrow  morn, 
And  broached  my  project  to  a  worthy  man 
Who  kept  an  office  and  a  case  of  books — 
An  honest  lawyer.     People  called  him  learn'd; 
But  wanting  tact  and  ready  speech  he  failed. 
The  rest  were  pettifoggers — scurrilous  rogues 
Who  plied  the  village  justice  with  their  lies, 
And  garbled  law  to  suit  the  case  in  hand — 
Mean,  querulous,  small-brained  delvers  in  the  mire 
Of  men's  misfortunes — crafty,  cunning  knaves, 
Versed  in  chicane  and  trickery  that  schemed 
To  keep  the  evil  passions  of  weak  men 
In  petty  wars,  and  plied  their  tongues  profane 
With  cunning  words  to  argue  honest  fools 
Into  their  spider-meshes  to  be  fleeced. 


PAULhMb  151 

I  laid  my  case  before  him ;   took  advice — 

Well-meant  advice — to  leave  my  native  town, 

And  study  with  my  kinsman  whom  he  knew. 

A  week  rolled  round  and  brought  me  a  reply — 

A'frank  and  kindly  letter — giving  me 

That  which  I  needed  most — encouragement. 

But  hard  it  was  to  fix  my  mind  to  go; 

For  in  my  heart  an  angel  whispered  '  Stay/ 

It  might  be  better  for  my  after  years, 

And  yet  perhaps,  'twere  better  to  remain. 

I  balanced  betwixt  my  reason  and  my  heart, 

And  hesitated.     Her  I  had  not  seen 

Since  that  sad  night,  and  so  I  made  resolve 

That  we  should  meet,  and  at  her  father's  house. 

So  whispering  courage  to  my  timid  heart 

I  went.     With  happy  greeting  at  the  door 

She  met  me,  but  her  face  was  wan  and  pale — 

So  pale  and  wan  I  feared  that  she  was  ill. 

I  read  the  letter  to  her,  and  she  sighed, 

And  sat  in  silence  for  a  little  time, 

Then  said: 

"  'God  bless  you,  Paul,  may  be  'tis  best— 
I  sometimes  feel  it  is  not  for  the  best, 
But  I  am  selfish — thinking  of  myself. 
Go  like  a  man,  but  keep  your  boyish  heart — 
Your  boyish  heart  is  all  the  world  to  me. 
Remember,  Paul,  how  I  shall  watch  and  wait; 
So  write  me  often :   like  the  dew  of  heaven 
To  withering  grass  will  come  your  cheering  words. 
To  know  that  you  are  well  and  happy,  Paul, 
And  good  and  true,  will  wing  the  weary  months. 
And  let  me  beg  you  as  your  mother  would — 
Not  that  I  doubt  you,  but  because  I  love  — ^ 


152  PA  ULINE 

Beware  of  wine — touch  not  the  treacherous  cup, 
And  guard  your  honor  as  you  guard  your  life. 
The  years  will  glide  away  like  scudding  clouds 
That  fleetly  chase  each  other  over  the  hills, 
And  you  will  be  a  man  before  you  know, 
And  I  will  be  a  woman.     God  will  crown 
Our  dearest  hopes  if  we  but  trust  in  Him.' 

"We  sat  in  silence  for  a  little  time, 

And  she  was  weeping,  so  I  raised  her  face 

And  kissed  away  her  tears.     She  softly  said: 

'  Paul,  there  is  something  I  must  say  to  you — 

Something  I  have  no  time  to  tell  you  now; 

But  we  must  meet  again  before  you  go — 

Under  the  pines  where  we  so  oft  have  met. 

Be  this  the  sign,' — (She  waved  her  graceful  hand) 

'  Come  when  the  shadows  gather  on  the  pines, 

And  silent  stars  stand  sentinel  in  heaven; 

Now  Paul,  forgive  me — I  must  say — good-bye.' 

"  I  read  her  fear  upon  her  anxious  face. 
Lingering  and  clasped  within  her  loving  arms 
I,  through  her  dewy,  deep,  blue  eyes,  beheld 
Her  inmost  soul,  and  knew  that  love  was  there. 
Ah — then  and  there  her  father  blustered  in, 
And  caught  us  blushing  in  each  other's  arms! 
He  stood  a  moment  silent  and  amazed: 
Then  kindling  wrath  distorted  all  his  face, 
He  showered  his  anger  with  a  tongue  of  fire. 
O  cruel  words  that  stung  my  boyish  pride ! 

0  dagger  words  that  stabbed  my  very  soul ! 

1  strove,  but  anger  mastered — up  I  sprang, 
And  felt  a  giant  as  I  stood  before  him. 

My  breath  was  hot  with  fury; — impious  boy — 
Frenzied — forgetful  of  his  silvered  hairs — 


PA  ULINE  153 

.  - 

Forgetful  of  her  presence,  too,  I  raved, 

And  poured  a  madman's  curses  on  his  head. 

A  moan  of  anguish  brought  me  to  myself; 

I  turned  and  saw  her  sad,  imploring  face, 

And  tears  that  quenched  the  wild-fire  in  my  heart. 

I  pressed  her  hand  and  passed  into  the  hall, 

While  she  stood  sobbing  in  a  flood  of  tears, 

And  he  stood  choked  with  anger  and  amazed. 

But  as  I  passed  the  ivied  porch  he  came 

With  bated  breath  and  muttered  in  my  ear — 

1  Beggar!' — It  stung  me  like  a  serpent's  fang. 

Pride-pricked  and  muttering  like  a  maniac, 

I  almost  riew  the  street  and  hurried  home 

To  vent  my  anger  to  the  silent  elms. 

'  Beggar! ' — an  hundred  times  that  long,  mad  night 

I  muttered  with  hot  lips  and  burning  breath ; 

I  paced  the  walk  with  hurried  tread,  and  raved; 

I  threw  myself  beneath  the  willow-tree, 

And  muttered  like  the  muttering  of  a  storm. 

My  little  lamb  came  bleating  mournfully; 

Angered  I  struck  him; — out  among  the  trees 

I  wandered  growling  'beggar'  as  I  went, 

And  beating  in  through  all  my  burning  soul 

The  bitter  thoughts  it  conjured,  till  my  brain 

Reeled  and  I  sunk  upon  the  dew-damp  grass, 

And — utterly  exhausted — slept  till  morn. 

"I  dreamed  a  dream — all  mist  and  mystery. 
I  saw  a  sunlit  valley  beautiful 
With  purple  vineyards  and  with  garden-plots; 
And  in  the  vineyards  and  the  garden-plots 
Were  happy-hearted  youths  and  merry  girls 
Toiling  and  singing.     Grandsires  too  were  there, 
Sitting  contented  under  their  own  vines 


154  PA  ULINE 

And  fig-trees,  while  about  them  merrily  played 
Their  children's  children  like  the  sportive  lambs 
That  frolicked  on  the  foot-hills.     Low  of  kine, 
Full-uddered,  homeward-wending  from  the  meads, 
Fell  on  the  ear  as  soft  as  Hulder's  loor 
Tuned  on  the  Norse-land  mountains.     Like  a  nest 
Hid  in  a  hawthorn-hedge  a  cottage  stood 
Embowered  with  vines  beneath  broad-branching  elms 
Sweet-voiced  with  busy  bees. 

"On  either  hand 

Rose  steep  and  barren  mountains — mighty  cliffs 
Cragged  and  chasm'd  and  over-grown  with  thorns; 
And  on  the  topmost  peak  a  golden  throne 
Blazoned  with  burning  characters  that  read — 
1  Climb! — it  is  yours.'     Not  far  above  the  vale 
I  saw  a  youth,  fair-browed  and  raven-haired, 
Clambering  among  the  thorns  and  ragged  rocks; 
And  from  his  brow  with  torn  and  bleeding  hand 
He  wiped  great  drops  of  sweat.     Down  through  the  vale 
I  saw  a  rapid  river,  broad  and  deep, 
Winding  in  solemn  silence  to  the  sea — 
The  sea  all  mist  and  fog.     And  as  I  stood 
Viewing  the  river  and  the  moaning  sea, 
A  sail — and  then  another — flitted  down 
And  plunged  into  the  mist.     A  moment  more, 
Like  shapeless  shadows  of  the  by-gone  years, 
I  saw  them  in  the  mist  and  they  were  gone — 
Gone! — and  the  sea  moaned  on  and  seemed  to  say — 
'  Gone — and  forever!' — So  I  gladly  turned 
To  look  upon  the  throne — the  blazoned  throne 
That  sat  upon  the  everlasting  cliff. 
The  throne  had  vanished ! — Lo  where  it  had  stood, 
A  bed  of  ashes  and  a  gray-haired  man 


PAULINE  155 

** 
Sitting  upon  it  bowed  and  broken  down. 

And  so  the  vision  passed. 

"The  rising  sun 

Beamed  full  upon  my  face  and  wakened  me, 
And  there  beside  me  lay  my  pet — the  lamb — 
Gazing  upon  me  with  his  wondering  eyes, 
And  all  the  fields  were  bright  and  beautiful, 
And  brighter  seemed  the  world.     I  rose  resolved. 
I  let  the  cottage  and  disposed  of  all; 
The  lamb  went  bleating  to  a  neighbor's  field; 
And  oft  my  heart  ached,  but  I  mastered  it. 
This  was  the  constant  burden  of  my  brain — • 
'Beggar! — I'll  teach  him  that  I  am  a  man; 
I'll  speak  and  he  shall  listen;   I  will  rise, 
And  he  shall  see  my  course  as  I  go  up 
Round  after  round  the  ladder  of  success 
Even  as  the  pine  upon  the  mountain-top 
Towers  o'er  the  maple  on  the  mountain-side, 
I'll  tower  above  him.     Then  will  I  look  down 
And  call  him  Father: — He  shall  call  me  Son.' 

"  Then  hushing  my  sad  heart  the  day  drew  nigh 
Of  parting,  and  the  promised  sign  was  given. 
The  night  was  dismal  darkness — not  one  star 
Twinkled  in  heaven;   the  sad,  low-moaning  wind 
Played  like  a  mournful  harp  among  the  pines. 
I  groped  and  listened  through  the  gloomy  grove, 
Peering  with  eager  eyes  among  the  trees, 
And  calling  as  I  peered  with  anxious  voice 
One  darling  name.     No  answer  but  the  moan 
Of  the  wind-shaken  pines.     I  sat  me  down 
Under  the  dusky  shadows  waiting  for  her, 
And  lost  myself  in  gloomy  reverie. 
Dim  in  the  darksome  shadows  of  the  night, 


156  PA  ULINE 

While  thus  I  dreamed,  my  darling  came  and  crept 
Beneath  the  boughs  as  softly  as  a  hare, 
And  whispered  'Paul' — and  I  was  at  her  side. 
We  sat  upon  a  mound  moss-carpeted — 
No  eyes  but  God's  upon  us,  and  no  voice 
Spake  to  us  save  the  moaning  of  the  pines. 
Few  were  the  words  we  spoke;   her  silent  tears. 
Our  clasping,  trembling,  lingering  embrace, 
Were  more  than  words.     Into  one  solemn  hour, 
Were  pressed  the  fears  and  hopes  of  coming  years. 
Two  tender  hearts  that  only  dared  to  hope 
There  swelled  and  throbbed  to  the  electric  touch 
Of  love  as  holy  as  the  love  of  Christ. 
She  gave  her  picture  and  I  gave  a  ring — 
My  mother's — almost  with  her  latest  breath 
She  gave  it  me  and  breathed  my  darling's  name. 
It  girt  her  finger,  and  she  kissed  the  ring 
In  solemn  pledge,  and  said: 

"'I  bring  a  gift- 
The  priceless  gift  of  God  unto  his  own: 

0  may  it  prove  a  precious  gift  to  you, 
As  it  has  proved  a  precious  gift  to  me; 
And  promise  me  to  read  it  day  by  day- 
Beginning  on  the  morrow — every  day 

A  chapter — and  I  too  will  read  the  same.' 

"I  took  the  gift — a  precious  gift  indeed — 
And  you  may  see  how  I  have  treasured  it. 
Here,  Captain,  put  your  hand  upon  my  breast — 
An  inner  pocket — you  will  find  it  there." 

1  opened  the  bloody  blouse  and  thence  drew  forth 
The  Book  of  Christ  all  stained  with  Christian  blood. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  holy  book, 


PAULINE  157 

And  closed  his  eyes  as  if  in  silent  prayer. 

I  held  his  weary  head  and  bade  him  rest. 

He  lay  a  moment  silent  and  resumed: 

"Let  me  go  on  if  you  would  hear  the  tale; 

I  soon  shall  sleep  the  sleep  that  dreams  no  more. 

0  there  were  promises  and  vows  as  solemn 
As  Christ's  own  promises;  but  as  we  sat 
The  pattering  rain-drops  fell  among  the  pines, 
And  in  the  branches  the  foreboding  owl 
With  dismal  hooting  hailed  the  coming  storm. 
So  in  that  dreary  hour  and  desolate 

We  parted  in  the  silence  of  our  tears. 

"And  on  the  morrow  morn  I  bade  adieu 
To  the  old  cottage  home  I  loved  so  well — 
The  dear  old  cottage  home  where  I  was  born. 
Then  from  my  mother's  grave  I  plucked  a  rose 
Bursting  in  bloom — Pauline  had  planted  it — 
And  left  my  little  hill-girt  boyhood  world. 

1  journeyed  eastward  to  my  journey's  end; 
At  first  by  rail  for  many  a  flying  mile, 

By  mail-coach  thence  from  where  the  hurrying  train 

Leaps  a  swift  river  that  goes  tumbling  on 

Between  a  village  and  a  mountain-ledge, 

Chafing  its  rocky  banks.     There  seethes  and  foams 

The  restless  river  round  the  roaring  rocks, 

And  then  flows  on  a  little  way  and  pours 

Its  laughing  waters  into  a  bridal  lap. 

Its  flood  is  fountain-fed  among  the  hills; 

Far  up  the  mossy  brooks  the  timid  trout 

Lie  in  the  shadow  of  vine-tangled  elms. 

Out  from  the  village-green  the  roadway  leads 

Along  the  river  up  between  the  hills, 

Then  climbs  a  wooded  mountain  to  its  top, 


168  PA  ULINE 

And  gently  winds  adown  the  farther  side 

Unto  a  valley  where  the  bridal  stream 

Flows  rippling,  meadow-flower-and-willow-fringed, 

And  dancing  onward  with  a  merry  song, 

Hastes  to  the  nuptials.     From  the  mountain-top — 

A  thousand  feet  above  the  meadowy  vale — 

She  seems  a  chain  of  fretted  silver  wound 

With  artless  art  among  the  emerald  hills. 

Thence  up  a  winding  valley  of  grand  views — 

Hill-guarded — firs  and  rocks  upon  the  hills, 

And  here  and  there  a  solitary  pine 

Majestic — silent — mourns  its  slaughtered  kin, 

Like  the  last  warrior  of  some  tawny  tribe 

Returned  from  sunset  mountains  to  behold 

Once  more  the  spot  where  his  brave  fathers  sleep. 

The  farms  along  the  valley  stretch  away 

On  either  hand  upon  the  rugged  hills — 

Walled  into  fields.     Tall  elms  and  willow-trees 

Huge-trunked  and  ivy-hung  stand  sentinel 

Along  the  roadway  walls — storm- wrinkled  trees 

Planted  by  men  that  slumber  on  the  hills. 

Amid  such  scenes  all  day  we  rolled  along, 

And  as  the  shadows  of  the  western  hills 

Across  the  valley  crept  and  climbed  the  slopes, 

The  sunset  blazed  their  hazy  tops  and  fell 

Upon  the  emerald  like  a  mist  of  gold. 

And  at  that  hour  I  reached  my  journey's  end. 

The  village  is  a  gem  among  the  hills — 

Tall,  towering  hills  that  reach  into  the  blue. 

One  grand  old  mountain-cone  looms  on  the  left 

Far  up  toward  heaven,  and  all  around  are  hills. 

The  river  winds  among  the  leafy  hills 

Along  the  meadowy^dale ;   a  shade  of  elms 

And  willows  fringe^it.     In  this  lap  of  Chills 


PA  ULINE  159 

Cluster  the  happy  homes  of  men  content 

To  let  the  out- world  worry  as  it  will. 

The  court-house  park,  the  broad,  bloom-bordered  streets 

Are  avenues  of  maples  and  of  elms — 

Grander  than  Tadmor's  pillared  avenue — 

Fair  as  the  fabled  garden  of  the  gods. 

Beautiful  villas,  tidy  cottages, 

Flower  gardens,  fountains,  offices  and  shops, 

All  nestle  in  a  dreamy  wealth  of  woods. 

"  Kind  hearts  received  me.     All  that  wealth  could  bring — • 

Refinement,  luxury  and  ease — was  theirs; 

But  I  was  proud  and  felt  my  poverty, 

And  gladly  mured  myself  among  the  books 

To  master  'the  lawless  science  of  the  law.' 

1^  plodded  through  the  ponderous  commentaries — 

Some  musty  with  the  mildew  of  old  age; 

And  these  I  found  the  better  for  their  years, 

Like  olden  wine  in  cobweb-covered  flasks. 

The  blush  of  sunrise  found  me  at  my  books; 

The  midnight  cock-crow  caught  me  reading  still; 

And  oft  my  worthy  master  scolded  me: 

'A  time  for  work,'  he  said,  'a  time  for  play; 

Unbend  the  bow  or  else  the  bow  will  break.' 

But  when  I  wearied — needing  sleep  and  rest — 

A  single  word  seemed  whispered  in  my  ear — 

'Beggar!' — it  stung  me  to  redoubled  toil. 

I  trod  the  ofttimes  mazy  labyrinths 

Of  legal  logic — mined  the  mountain-mass 

Of  precedents  conflicting — found  the  rule, 

Then  branched  into  the  exceptions ;   split  the  hair 

Betwixt  this  case  and  that — ran  parallels — 

Traced  from  a  '  leading  case '  through  many  tomes 

Back  to  the  first  decision  on  the  'point.' 


160  PA  ULINE 

And  often  found  a  pyramid  of  law 

Built  with  bad  logic  on  a  broken  base 

Of  careless  '  dicta; ' — saw  how  narrow  minds 

Spun  out  the  web  of  technicalities 

Till  common  sense  and  common  equity 

Were  strangled  in  its  meshes.     Here  and  there 

I  came  upon  a  broad,  unfettered  mind 

Like  Marshall's — cleaving  through  the  spider-webs 

Of  shallower  brains,  and  bravely  pushing  out 

Upon  the  open  sea  of  common  sense. 

But  such  were  rare.     The  olden  precedents — 

Oft  stepping-stones  of  tyranny  and  wrong — 

Marked  easy  paths  to  follow,  and  they  ruled 

The  course  of  reason  as  the  iron  rails 

Rule  the  swift  wheels  of  the  down-thundering  train. 


I  rose  at  dawn.     First  in  this  holy  book 

I  read  my  chapter.     How  the  happy  thought 

That  my  Pauline  would  read — the  self-same  morn — 

The  self-same  chapter — gave  the  sacred  text, 

Though  I  had  heard  my  mother  read  it  oft. 

New  light  and  import  never  seen  before. 

For  I  would  ponder  over  every  verse, 

Because  I  felt  that  she  was  reading  it, 

And  when  I  came  upon  dear  promises 

Of  Christ  to  man,  I  read  them  over  and  over, 

Till  in  a  holy  and  mysterious  way 

They  seemed  the  whisperings  of  Pauline  to  me. 

Later  I  learned  to  lay  up  for  myself 

1  Treasures  in  heaven  where  neither  moth  nor  rust 

Corrupteth,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through, 

Nor  steal' — and  where  my  treasures  all  are  laid 

My  heart  is,  and  my  spirit  longs  to  go. 

O  friend,  if  Jesus  was  but  man  of  man — 


PA  ULINE  161 

.>- 

And  if  indeed  his  wondrous  miracles 
Were  mythic  tales  of  priestly  followers 
To  chain  the  brute  till  Reason  came  from  heaven — 
Yet  was  his  mission  unto  man  divine. 
Man's  pity  wounds,  but  Jesus'  pity  heals: 
He  gave  us  balm  beyond  all  earthly  balm; 
He  gave  us  strength  beyond  all  human  strength; 
He  taught  us  love  above  the  low  desires; 
He  taught  us  hope  beyond  all  earthly  hope; 
He  taught  us  charity  wherewith  to  build 
From  out  the  broken  walls  of  barbarism 
The  holy  temple  of  the  perfect  man. 

"On  every  Sabbath-eve  I  wrote  Pauline. 
Page  after  page  was  burdened  with  my  love, 
My  glowing  hopes  of  golden  days  to  come, 
And  frequent  boast  of  rapid  progress  made. 
With  hungry  heart  and  eager  I  devoured 
Her  letters;   I  re-read  them  twenty  times. 
At  morning  when  I  laid  the  Gospel  down 
I  read  her  latest  answer,  and  again 
At  midnight  by  my  lamp  I  read  it  over, 
And  murmuring  'God  bless  her,'  fell  asleep 
To  dream  that  I  was  with  her  under  the  pines. 

14  Thus  fled  four  years — four  years  of  patient  toil 
Sweetened  with  love  and  hope,  and  I  had  made 
Swift  progress  in  my  studies.     Master  said 
Another  year  would  bring  me  to  the  bar — 
No  fledgeling  but  full-feathered  for  the  field. 
And  then  her  letters  ceased.     I  wrote  and  wrote 
Again,  but  still  no  answer.     Day  after  day 
The  tardy  mail-coach  lagged  a  mortal  hour, 
While  I  sat  listening  for  its  welcome  horn; 
And  when  it  came  I  hastened  from  my  books 


102  PAULINE 

With  hope  and  fear  contending  in  my  soul. 
Day  after  day — no  answer — back  again 
I  turned  my  footsteps  with  a  weary  sigh. 
It  wore  upon  me  and  I  could  not  rest; 
It  gnawed  me  to  the  marrow  of  my  bones. 
The  heavy  tones  grew  dull  and  wearisome, 
And  sometimes  hateful; — then  I  broke  away 
As  from  a  prison  and  rushed  wildly  out 
Among  the  elms  along  the  river-bank — 
Bareing  my  burning  temples  to  the  breeze — 
And  drank  the  air  of  heaven  like  sparkling  wine — 
Conjuring  excuses  for  her; — was  she  ill? 
Perhaps  forbidden.     Had  another  heart 
Come  in  between  us? — No,  that  could  not  be; 
She  was  all  constancy  and  promise-bound. 
A  month,  which  seemed  to  me  a  laggard  year, 
Thus  wore  away.     At  last  a  letter  came. 

0  with  what  springing  step  I  hurried  back — 
Back  to  my  private  chamber  and  my  desk! 
With  what  delight — what  eager,  trembling  hand — 
The  well-known  seal  that  held  my  hopes  I  broke! 
Thus  ran  the  letter: 

'  '  Paul,  the  time  has  come 
When  we  must  both  forgive  while  we  forget. 
Mine  was  a  girlish  fancy.     We  outgrow 
Such  childish  follies  in  our  later  years. 
Now  I  have  pondered  well  and  made  an  end. 

1  cannot  wed  myself  to  want,  and  curse 
My  life  life-long,  because  a  girlish  freak 
Of  folly  made  a  promise.     So — farewell.' 

"  My  eyes  were  blind  with  passion  as  I  read. 

I  tore  the  letter  into  bits  and  stamped 

Upon  them,  ground  my  teeth  and  cursed  the  day 


.  ig     PAULINE  163 

,x*- 

I  met  her,  to  be  jilted.     All  that  night 

My  thoughts  ran  riot.     Round  the  room  I  strode 

A  raving  madman — savage  as  a  Sioux; 

Then  flung  myself  upon  my  couch  in  tears, 

And  wept  in  silence,  and  then  stormed  again. 

1  Beggar! ' — it  raised  the  serpent  in  my  breast — 

Mad  pride — bat-blind.     I  seize  her  pictured  face 

And  ground  it  under  my  heel.     With  impious  hand 

I  caught  the  book — the  precious  gift  she  gave, 

And  would  have  burned  it,  but  'A  still  small  voice1 

Spake  in  my  heart  and  bade  me  spare  the  book. 

"Then  with  this  Gospel  clutched  in  both  my  hands, 

I  swore  a  solemn  oath  that  I  would  rise, 

If  God  would  spare  me; — she  should  see  me  rise, 

And  learn  what  she  had  lost. — Yes,  I  would  mount 

Merely  to  be  revenged.     I  would  not  cringe 

Down  like  a  spaniel  underneath  the  lash, 

But  like  a  man  would  teach  my  proud  Pauline 

And  her  hard  father  to  repent  the  day 

They  called  me  'beggar.'     Thus  I  raved  and  stormed 

That  mad  night  out ; — forgot  at  dawn  of  morn 

This  holy  book,  but  fell  to  a  huge  tome 

And  read  an  hundred  pages  in  a  day. 

I  could  not  keep  the  thread  of  argument; 

I  could  not  hold  my  mind  upon  the  book; 

I  could  not  break  the  silent  under-tow 

That  swept  all  else  from  out  my  throbbing  brain 

But  false  Pauline.     I  read  from  morn  till  night. 

But  having  closed  the  book  I  could  not  tell 

Aught  of  its  contents.     Then  I  cursed  myself, 

And  muttered — '  Fool — can  you  not  shake  it  off — 

This  nightmare  of  your  boyhood? — Brave,  indeed — 

Crushed  like  a  spaniel  by  this  false  Pauline! 

Crushed  am  I? — By  the  gods,  I'll  malce  an  end, 


164  PAULINE 

And  she  shall  never  know  it  nettled  me!' 

So  passed  the  weary  days.     My  cheeks  grew  thin; 

I  needed  rest,  I  said,  and  quit  my  books 

To  range  the  fields  and  hills  with  fowling-piece 

And  '  mal  prepense '  toward  the  feathery  flocks. 

The  pigeons  flew  from  tree-tops  over  my  head; 

I  heard  the  flap  of  wings — and  they  were  gone; 

The  pheasant  whizzed  from  bushes  at  my  feet 

Unseen  until  its  sudden  whir  of  wings 

Startled  and  broke  my  wandering  reverie; 

And  then  I  whistled  and  relapsed  to  dreams, 

Wandering  I  cared  not  whither — wheresoe'er 

My  silent  gun  still  bore  its  primal  charge. 

So  gameless,  but  with  cheeks  and  forehead  tinged 

By  breeze  and  sunshine,  I  returned  to  books. 

But  still  a  phantom  haunted  all  my  dreams — 

Awake  or  sleeping,  for  awake  I  dreamed — 

A  spectre  that  I  could  not  chase  away — 

The  phantom-form  of  my  own  false  Pauline. 

"Six  months  wore  off — six  long  and  weary  months; 

Then  came  a  letter  from  a  school-boy  friend — 

In  answer  to  the  queries  I  had  made — 

Filled  with  the  gossip  of  my  native  town. 

Unto  her  father's  friend — a  bachelor, 

Her  senior  by  full  twenty  years  at  least — 

Dame  Rumor  said  Pauline  had  pledged  her  hand. 

I  knew  him  well — a  sly  and  cunning  man — 

And  he  my  rival — carrying  off  my  prize? 

But  what  cared  I?   'twas  all  the  same  to  me — 

Yea,  better  for  the  sweet  revenge  to  come. 

So  whispered  pride,  but  in  my  inmost  soul 

I  cared,  and  hoped  whatever  came  to  pass 

She  might  be  happy  all  her  days  on  earth, 

And  find  a  happy  haven  at  the  end. 


PAULINE  165 

"  My  thoughtful  master  bade  me  quit  my  books 
A  month  at  least,  for  I  was  wearing  out. 
'Unbend  the  bow,'  he  said.     His  watchful  eye 
Saw  toil  and  care  at  work  upon  my  cheeks; 
He  could  not  see  the  canker  at  my  heart, 
But  he  had  seen  pale  students  wear  away 
With  overwork  the  vigor  of  their  lives; 
And  so  he  gave  me  means  and  bade  me  go 
To  romp  a  month  among  my  native  hills. 
I  went,  but  not  as  I  had  left  my  home — 
A  bashful  boy,  uncouth  and  coarsely  clad, 
But  clothed  and  mannered  like  a  gentleman. 

"My  school-boy  friend  gave  me  a  cordial  greeting; 

That  honest  lawyer  bade  me  welcome,  too, 

And  doted  on  my  progress  and  the  advice 

He  gave  me  ere  I  left  my  native  town. 

Since  first  the  iron-horse  had  coursed  the  vale 

Five  years  had  fled — five  prosperous,  magic  years, 

And  well  nigh  five  since  I  had  left  my  home. 

These  prosperous  years  had  wrought  upon  the  place 

Their  wonders  till  I  hardly  knew  the  town. 

The  broad  and  stately  blocks  of  brick  that  shamed 

The  weather-beaten  wooden  shops  I  knew 

Seemed  the  creation  of  some  magic  hand. 

Adown  the  river  bank  the  town  had  stretched, 

Sweeping  away  the  quiet  grove  of  pines 

Where  I  had  loved  to  ramble  when  a  boy 

And  see  the  squirrels  leap  from  tree  to  tree 

With  reckless  venture,  hazarding  a  fall 

To  dodge  the  ill-aimed  arrows  from  my  bow. 

The  dear  old  school-house  on  the  hill  was  gone: 

A  costly  church,  tall-spired  and  built  of  stone 

Stood  in  its  stead — a  monument  to  man. 

Unholy  greed  had  felled  the  stately  pines, 


166  PA  ULINE 

And  all  the  slope  was  bare  and  desolate. 

Old  faces  had  grown  older;  some  were  gone, 

And  many  unfamiliar  ones  had  come. 

Boys  in  their  teens  had  grown  to  bearded  men, 

And  girls  to  womanhood,  and  all  was  changed, 

Save  the  old  cottage-home  where  I  was  born. 

The  elms  and  butternuts  in  the  meadow-field 

Still  wore  the  features  of  familiar  friends; 

The  English  ivy  clambered  to  the  roof, 

The  English  willow  spread  its  branches  still, 

And  as  I  stood  before  the  cottage-door 

My  heart-pulse  quickened,  for  methought  I  heard 

My  mother's  footsteps  on  the  ashen  floor. 

"The  rumor  I  had  heard  was  verified; 

The  wedding-day  was  named  and  near  at  hand. 

I  met  my  rival:  gracious  were  his  smiles: 

Glad  as  a  boy  that  robs  the  robin's  nest 

He  grasped  the  hands  of  half  the  men  he  met. 

Pauline,  I  heard,  but  seldom  ventured  forth, 

Save  when  her  doting  father  took  her  out 

On  Sabbath  morns  to  breathe  the  balmy  air, 

And  grace  with  her  sweet  face  his  cushioned  pevr. 

The  smooth-faced  suitor,  old  dame  Gossip  said, 

Made  daily  visits  to  her  father's  house, 

And  played  the  boy  at  forty  years  or  more, 

While  she  had  held  him  off  to  draw  him  on. 

"  I  would  not  fawn  upon  the  hand  that  smote ; 

I  would  not  cringe  beneath  its  cruel  blow, 

Nor  even  let  her  know  I  cared  for  it. 

I  kept  aloof — as  proud  as  Lucifer. 

But  when  the  church-bells  chimed  on  Sabbath  morn 

To  that  proud  monument  of  stone  I  went — 

Her  father's  pride,  since  he  had  led  the  list 


PAULINE  167 

Of  wealthy  patrons  who  had  builded  it — 

To  hear  the  sermon — for  methought  Pauline 

Would  hear  it  too.     Might  I  not  see  her  face, 

And  she  not  know  I  cared  to  look  upon  it  ? 

She  came  not,  and  the  psalms  and  sermon  fell 

Upon  me  like  an  Autumn-mist  of  rain. 

I  met  her  once  by  chance  upon  the  street — 

The  day  before  the  appointed  wedding-day — 

Her  and  her  father — she  upon  his  arm. 

'Paul — O  Paul!'   she  said  and  gave  her  hand. 

I  took  it  with  a  cold  and  careless  air — 

Begged  pardon — had  forgotten; — 'Ah — Pauline? — 

Yes,  I  remembered ; — five  long  years  ago — 

And  I  had  made  so  many  later  friends, 

And  she  had  lost  so  much  of  maiden  bloom!' 

Then  turning  met  her  father  face  to  face, 

Bowed  with  cold  grace  and  haughtily  passed  on. 

'This  is  revenge/  I  muttered.     Even  then 

My  heart  ached  as  I  thought  of  her  pale  face, 

Her  pleading  eyes,  her  trembling,  clasping  hand! 

And  then  and  there  I  would  have  turned  about 

To  beg  her  pardon  and  an  interview, 

But  pride — that  serpent  ever  in  my  heart — 

Hissed  'beggar,'  and  I  cursed  her  with  the  lips 

That  oft  had  poured  my  love  into  her  ears. 

'  She  marries  gold  to-morrow — let  her  wed ! 

She  will  not  wed  a  beggar,  but  I  think 

She'll  wed  a  life-long  sorrow — let  her  wed! 

Aye — aye — I  hope  she'll  live  to  curse  the  day 

Whereon  she  broke  her  sacred  promises. 

And  I  forgive  her? — yea,  but  not  forget. 

I'll  take  good  care  that  she  shall  not  forget; 

I'll  prick  her  memory  with  a  bitter  thorn 

Through  all  her  future.     Let  her  marry  gold!' 


1C8  PA  ULINE 

Thus  ran  my  muttered  words,  but  in  my  heart 
There  ran  a  counter-current;  ere  I  slept 
Its  silent  under-tow  had  mastered  all — 
'Forgive  and  be  forgiven.'     I  resolved 
That  on  the  morning  of  her  wedding-day 
Would  I  go  kindly  and  forgive  Pauline, 
And  send  her  to  the  altar  with  my  blessing. 
That  night  I  read  a  chapter  in  this  book — 
The  first  for  many  months,  and  fell  asleep 
Beseeching  God  to  bless  her. 

Then  I  dreamed 

That  we  were  kneeling  at  my  mother's  bed — 
Her  death-bed,  and  the  feeble,  trembling  hands 
Of  her  who  loved  us  rested  on  our  heads, 
And  in  a  voice  all  tremulous  with  tears 
My  mother  said:   'Dear  children,  love  each  other; 
Bear  and  forbear,  and  come  to  me  in  heaven.' 

11 1  wakened  once — at  midnight — a  wild  cry — 

1  Paul,  O  Paul  I '  rang  through  my  dreams  and  broke 

My  slumber.     I  arose,  but  all  was  still, 

And  then  I  slept  again  and  dreamed  till  morn. 

In  all  my  dreams  her  dear,  sweet  face  appeared — 

Now  radiant  as  a  star,  and  now  all  pale — 

Now  glad  with  smiles  and  now  all  wet  with  tears. 

Then  came  a  dream  that  agonized  my  soul, 

While  every  limb  was  bound  as  if  in  chains. 

Methought  I  saw  her  in  the  silent  night 

Leaning  o'er  misty  waters  dark  and  deep : 

A  moan — a  plash  of  waters — and — O  Christ ! — 

Her  agonized  face  upturned — imploring  hands 

Stretched  out  toward  me,  and  a  wailing  cry — 

1  Paul,  0  Paul ! '     Then  face  and  hands  went  .down, 


PAULINE  1C9 

And  o'er  her  closed  the  deep  and  dismal  flood 
Forever — but  it  could  not  drown  the  cry: 
'  Paul,  O  Paul! '  was  ringing  in  my  ears ; 
'Paw/,  O  Paul!'  was  throbbing  in  my  heart; 
And  moaning,  sob  Ding  in  my  shuddering  soul 
Trembled  the  wail  of  anguish— ' Paul,  O  Paul!' 

"  Then  o'er  the  waters  stole  the  silver  dawn, 

And  lo  a  fairy  boat  with  silken  sail! 

And  in  the  boat  an  angel  at  the  helm, 

And  at  her  feet  the  form  of  her  I  loved. 

The  white  mists  parted  as  the  boat  sped  on 

In  silence,  lessening  far  and  far  away. 

And  then  the  sunrise  glimmered  on  the  sail 

A  moment,  and  the  angel  turned  her  face: 

My  mother! — and  I  gave  a  joyful  cry, 

And  stretched  my  hands,  but  lo  the  hovering  mists 

Closed  in  around  them  and  the  vision  passed. 

"The  morning  sun  stole  through  the  window-blinds 

And  fell  upon  my  face  and  wakened  me, 

And  I  lay  musing — thinking  of  Pauline. 

Yes,  she  should  know  the  depths  of  all  my  heart — 

The  love  I  bore  her  all  those  lonely  years; 

The  hope  that  held  me  steadfast  to  my  toil, 

And  feel  the  higher  and  the  holier  love 

Her  precious  gift  had  wakened  in  my  soul. 

Yea,  I  would  bless  her  for  that  precious  gift — 

I  had  not  known  its  treasures  but  for  her, 

And  O  for  that  would  I  forgive  her  all, 

And  bless  the  hand  that  smote  me  to  the  soul. 

That  would  be  comfort  to  me  all  my  days, 

And  if  there  came  a  bitter  time  to  her, 

'T would  pain  her  less  to  know  that  I  forgave. 


170  PAULINE 

"A  hasty  rapping  at  my  chamber- door; 

In  came  my  school-boy  friend  whose  guest  I  was, 

And  said: 

'Come,  Paul,  the  town  is  all  ablaze! 
A  sad — a  strange — a  marvelous  suicide! 
Pauline,  who  was  to  be  a  bride  to-day, 
Was  missed  at  dawn  and  after  sunrise  found — 
Traced  by  her  robe  and  bonnet  on  the  bridge, 
Whence  she  had  thrown  herself  and  made  an  end — ' 

"And  he  went  on,  but  I  could  hear  no  more; 

It  fell  upon  me  like  a  flash  from  heaven. 

As  one  with  sudden  terror  dumb,  I  turned 

And  in  my  pillow  buried  up  my  face. 

Tears  came  at  last,  and  then  my  friend  passed  out 

In  silence.     O  the  agony  of  that  hour! 

0  doubts  and  fears  and  half-read  mysteries 
That  tore  my  heart  and  tortured  all  my  soul! 

"  I  arose.     About  the  town  the  wildest  tales 

And  rumors  ran;   dame  Gossip  was  agog. 

Some  said  she  had  been  ill  and  lost  her  mind, 

Some  whispered  hints,  and  others  shook  their  heads; 

But  none  could  fathom  the  marvelous  mystery. 

Bearing  a  bitter  anguish  in  my  heart, 

Half-crazed  with  dread  and  doubt  and  boding  fears. 

Hour  after  hour  alone,  disconsolate, 

Among  the  scenes  where  we  had  wandered  oft 

1  wandered,  sat  where  once  the  stately  pines 
Doomed  the  fair  temple  where  we  learned  to  love. 
O  spot  of  sacred  memories — how  changed! 

Yet  chiefly  wanting  one  dear,  blushing  face 
That,  in  those  happy  days,  made  every  place 


PAULINE  171 

Wherever  we  might  wander — hill  or  dale — 
Garden  of  love  and  peace  and  happiness. 
So  heavy-hearted  I  returned.     My  friend 
Had  brought  for  me  a  letter  with  his  mail. 
I  knew  the  hand  upon  the  envelope — 
With  throbbing  heart  I  hastened  to  my  room; 
With  trembling  hands  I  broke  the  seal  and  read. 
One  sheet  inclosed  another — one  was  writ 
At  midnight  by  my  loved  and  lost  Pauline. 
Inclosed  within,  a  letter  false  and  forged, 
Signed  with  my  name — such  perfect  counterfeit, 
At  sight  I  would  have  sworn  it  was  my  own. 
And  thus  her  letter  ran: 

"'Beloved  Paul, 

May  God  forgive  you  as  my  heart  forgives. 
Even  as  a  vine  that  winds  about  an  oak, 
Rot-struck  and  hollow-hearted,  for  support, 
Clasping  the  sapless  branches  as  it  climbs 
With  tender  tendrils  and  undoubting  faith, 
I  leaned  upon  your  troth ;  nay,  all  my  hopes— 
My  love,  my  life,  my  very  hope  of  heaven — 
I  staked  upon  your  solemn  promises. 
I  learned  to  love  you  better  than  my  God; 
My;God  hath  sent  me  bitter  punishment. 
O;  broken  pledges !  what  have  I  to  live 
And  suffer  for  ?     Half  mad  in  my  distress, 
Yielding  at  last  to  father's  oft  request, 
I  pledged  my  hand  to  one  whose  very  love 
Would  be  a  curse  upon  me  all  my  days. 
To-morrow  is  the  promised  wedding  day; 
To-morrow! — but  to-morrow  shall  not  come! 
Come  gladlier,  death,  and  make  an  end  of  all! 
How  many  weary  days  and  patiently 
I  waited  for  a  letter,  and  at  last 


172  PAULINE 

It  came — a  message  crueler  than  death. 
O  take  it  back ! — and  if  you  have  a  heart 
Yet  warm  to  pity  her  you  swore  to  love, 
Read  it — and  think  of  those  dear  promises — 

0  sacred  as  the  Savior's  promises — 

You  whispered  in  my  ear  that  solemn  night 
Under  the  pines,  and  kissed  away  my  tears. 
And  know  that  I  forgive  you,  O  dear  Paul: 
Meet  me  in  heaven.     God  will  not  frown  upon 
The  sin  that  saves  me  from  a  greater  sin, 
And  sends  my  soul  to  Him.     Farewell — Farewell.'  ' 

Here  he  broke  down.     Unto  his  pallid  lips 

1  held  a  flask  of  wine.     He  sipped  the  wine 
And  closed  his  eyes  in  silence  for  a  time, 
Resuming  thus: 

"You  see  the  wicked  plot. 
We  both  were  victims  of  a  crafty  scheme 
To  break  our  hearts  asunder.     Forgery 
Had  done  its  work  and  pride  had  aided  it. 
The  forged  letter  was  a  cruel  one — 
Casting  her  off  with  utter  heartlessness, 
And  boasting  of  a  later,  dearer  love, 
And  begging  her  to  burn  the  billets-doux 
A  moon-struck  boy  had  sent  her  ere  he  found 
That  pretty  girls  were  plenty  in  the  world. 
"Think  you  my  soul  was  roiled  with  anger? — No; — 
God's  hand  was  on  my  head.     A  keen  remorse 
Gnawed  at  my  heart.     O  false  and  fatal  pride 
That  blinded  me,  else  I  had  seen  the  plot 
Ere  all  was  lost — else  I  had  saved  a  life 
To  me  most  precious  of  all  lives  on  earth — 
Yea,  dearer  then  than  any  soul  in  heaven! 
False  pride — the  ruin  of  unnumbered  souls — 


PAULINE  173 

Thou  art  the  serpent  ever  tempting  me; 

God,  chastening  me,  has  bruised  thy  serpent  head. 

0  faithful  heart  in  silence  suffering — 
True  unto  death  to  one  she  could  but  count 
A  perjured  villain,  cheated  as  she  was! 
Captain,  I  prayed — 'twas  all  that  I  could  do. 
God  heard  my  prayer,  and  with  a  solemn  heart, 
Bearing  the  letters  in  my  hand,  I  went 

To  ask  a  favor  of  the  man  who  crushed 
And  cursed  my  life — to  look  upon  her  face — 
Only  to  look  on  her  dear  face  once  more. 

"  I  rung  the  bell — a  servant  bade  me  in. 

1  waited  long.     At  last  the  father  came — 
All  pale  and  suffering.     I  could  see  remorse 
Was  gnawing  at  his  heart;  as  I  arose 

He  trembled  like  a  culprit  on  the  drop. 
'O,  sir/  he  said,  'whatever  be  your  quest, 
I  pray  you  leave  me  with  my  dead  to-day; 
I  cannot  look  on  any  living  face 
Till  her  dead  face  is  gone  forevermore.' 

"  'And  who  hath  done  this  cruel  thing?'  I  said. 

'Explain,'  he  faltered.     'Pray  you,  sir,  explain!' 

I  said,  and  thrust  the  letters  in  his  hand. 

And  as  he  sat  in  silence  reading  hers, 

I  saw  the  pangs  of  conscience  on  his  face; 

I  saw  him  tremble  like  a  stricken  soul; 

And  then  a  tear-drop  fell  upon  his  hand; 

And  there  we  sat  in  silence.     Then  he  groaned 

And  fell  upon  his  knees  and  hid  his  face, 

And  stretched  his  hand  toward  me  wailing  out — 

'I  cannot  bear  this  burden  on  my  soul; 

O  Paul! — O  God! — forgive  me  or  I  die.' 


174  PA  ULINE 

"  His  anguish  touched  my  heart.     I  took  his  hand, 
And  kneeling  by  him  prayed  a  solemn  prayer — 
1  Father,  forgive  him,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did  who  broke  the  bond  that  bound  us  twain. 

0  may  her  spirit  whisper  in  his  ear 
Forever — God  is  love  and  all  is  well.' 

"The  iron  man — all  bowed  and  broken  down — 

Sobbed  like  a  child.     He  laid  his  trembling  hand 

With  many  a  fervent  blessing  on  my  head, 

And,  with  the  crust  all  crumbled  from  his  heart, 

Arose  and  led  me  to  her  silent  couch; 

And  I  looked  in  upon  my  darling  dead. 

Mine — O  mine  in  heaven  forevermore! 

God's  angel  sweetly  smiling  in  her  sleep; 

How  beautiful — how  radiant  of  heaven! 

The  ring  I  gave  begirt  her  finger  still; 

Her  golden  hair  was  wreathed  with  immortelles; 

The  lips  half-parted  seemed  to  move  in  psalm 

Or  benediction.     As  I  kissed  her  brow, 

It  seemed  as  if  her  dead  cheeks  flushed  again 

As  in  those  happy  days  beneath  the  pines; 

And  as  my  warm  tears  fell  upon  her  face, 

Methought  I  heard  that  dear  familiar  voice, 

So  full  of  love  and  faith  and  calmest  peace, 

So  near  and  yet  so  far  and  far  away, 

So  mortal,  yet  so  spiritual — like  an  air 

Of  softest  music  on  the  slumbering  bay 

Wafted  on  midnight  wings  to  silent  shores, 

When  myriad  stars  are  twinkling  in  the  sea: 

"Paul,  O  Paul,  forgive  and  be  forgiven; 
Earth  is  all  trial; — there  is  peace  in  heaven.' 

"  O  Captain,  in  that  sad  and  solemn  hour 

1  laid  my  hand  upon  the  arm  of  Christ, 


.      PAULINE  175 

•  *?• 

And  He  hath  led  me  all  the  weary  way 

To  this  last  battle.     I  shall  win  through  Him; 

And  ere  you  hear  the  reveille  again 

Paul  and  Pauline,  amid  the  psalms  of  heaven, 

Embraced  will  kneel  and  at  the  Golden  Throne 

Receive  his  benediction.     Let  me  sleep. 

You  know  the  rest; — I'm  weary  and  must  sleep. 

An  angel's  bugle-blast  will  waken  me, 

But  not  to  pain,  for  there  is  peace  in  heaven." 

He  slept,  but  not  the  silent  sleep  of  death. 

I  felt  his  fitful  pulse  and  caught  anon 

The  softly- whispered  words  "  Pauline,"  and  "  Peace." 

Anon  he  clutched  with  eager,  nervous  hand, 

And  in  a  hoarse  whisper  shouted — "Steady,  men!" 

Then  sunk  again.     Thus  passed  an  hour  or  more 

And  he  woke,  half -raised  himself  and  said 

With  feeble  voice  and  eyes  strange  luster-lit: 

"Captain,  my  boat  is  swiftly  sailing  out 

Into  the  misty  and  eternal  sea: 

From  out  that  vast  no  mortal  craft  returns. 

The  fog  is  closing  round  me  and  the  mist 

Is  damp  and  cold  upon  my  hands  and  face. 

Why  should  I  fear  ? — the  loved  have  gone  before : 

I  seem  to  hear  the  plash  of  coming  oars; 

The  mists  are  lifting  and  the  boat  is  near. 

'Tis  well.     To  die  as  I  am  dying  now — 

A  soldier's  death  amid  the  gladsome  shouts 

Of  victory  for  which  my  puny  hands 

Did  their  full  share,  albeit  it  was  small, 

Was  all  my  late  ambition.     Bring  the  Flag, 

And  hold  it  over  my  head.     Let  me  die  thus 

Under  the  stars  I've  followed.     Dear  old  Flag" — 

But  here  his  words  became  inaudible, 


176  PAULINE 

As  in  the  mazes  of  the  Mammoth  Cave, 

Fainter  and  fainter  on  the  listening  ear, 

The  low,  retreating  voices  die  away. 

His  eyes  were  closed;  a  gentle  smile  of  peace 

Sat  on  his  face.     I  held  his  nerveless  hand, 

And  bent  my  ear  to  catch  his  latest  breath; 

And  as  the  spirit  fled  the  pulseless  clay, 

I  heard — or  thought  I  heard — his  wonder-words — 

"  Pauline,— how  beautiful!" 

As  I  rose 
The  gray  dawn  paled  the  shadows  in  the  east. 


BEYOND 


White-haired  and  hoary-bearded,  who  art  thou 
That  speedest  on,  albeit  bent  with  age, 
Even  as  a  youth  that  followeth  after  dreams  ? 
Whence  are  thy  feet  and  whither  trends  thy  way  ? 

Stayed  not  his  hurried  steps,  but  as  he  passed 
His  low,  hoarse  answer  fell  upon  the  wind : 
"Go  thou  and  question  yonder  mountain-peaks; 
Go  thou  and  ask  the  hoary-heaving  main; — 
Nay,  if  thou  wilt,  the  great,  globed,  silent  stars 
That  sail  innumerable  the  shoreless  sea, 
And  let  the  eldest  answer  if  he  may. 
Nay,  the  unnumbered  myriad,  myriad  worlds 
Rolling  around  innumerable  suns, 
Through  all  the  boundless,  bottomless  abyss, 
Are  but  as  grains  of  sand  upwhirled  and  flung 
By  roaring  winds  and  scattered  on  the  sea. 
I  have  beheld  them  and  my  hand  hath  sown. 

"  Far-twinkling  faint  through  dim,  immeasured  depths, 
Behold  Alcyon£ — a  grander  sun. 
Round  him  thy  solar  orb  with  all  his  brood 
Glimmering  revolves.     Aye,  from  yon  mightier  sphere 
Light,  flying  faster  than  the  thoughts  of  men, 
Swift  as  the  lightnings  cleave  the  glowering  storm, 
Shot  on  and  on  through  dim,  ethereal  space, 

177 


178  BEYOND 

Ere  yet  it  touched  thy  little  orb  of  Earth, 
Five  hundred  cycles  of  thy  world  and  more. 
Round  him  thy  Sun,  obedient  to  his  power, 
Thrice  tenfold  swifter  than  the  swiftest  wing, 
His  aeon-orbit,  million-y eared  and  vast, 
Wheels  through  the  void.     Him  flaming  I  beheld 
When  first  he  flashed  from  out  his  central  fire— 
A  mightier  orb  beyond  thine  utmost  ken. 
Round  upon  round  innumerable  hath  swung 
Thy  sun  upon  his  circuit;    grander  still 
His  vaster  orbit  far  Alcyone 
Wheels  and  obeys  the  mightier  orb  unseen. 

41  Seest  thou  yon  star-paved  pathway  like  an  arch 

Athwart  thy  welkin  ? — wondrous  zone  of  stars, 

Dim  in  the  distance  circling  one  huge  sun, 

To  whom  thy  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire — 

To  whom  thine  Earth  is  but  a  grain  of  dust: 

Glimmering  around  him  myriad  suns  revolve 

And  worlds  innumerable  as  sea-beach  sands. 

Ere  on  yon  Via  Lactea  rolled  one  star 

Mark! — I  was  there  and  trode  the  mighty  round; 

Yea,  ere  the  central  orb  was  fired  and  hung 

A  lamp  to  light  the  chaos.     Star  on  star, 

System  on  system,  myriad  worlds  on  worlds, 

Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  mortal  ken, 

Beyond  the  utmost  flight  of  mortal  dream! 

Yet  have  mine  eyes  beheld  the  birth  of  all. 

But  whence  I  am  I  know  not.     We  are  three — 

Known,  yet  unknown — unfathomable  to  man — 

Time,  Space,  and  Matter  pregnant  with  all  life, 

Immortals  older  than  the  oldest  orb. 

We  were  and  are  forever :  out  of  us 

Are  all  things — suns  and  satellites,  midge  and  man. 


BE  YOND  179 

Worlds  wax  and  wane,  suns  flame  and  glow  and  die; 

Through  shoreless  space  their  scattered  ashes^float, 

Unite,  cohere,  and  wax  to  worlds  again, 

Changing,  yet  changeless — new,  but  ever  old — 

No  atom  lost  and  not  one  atom  gained, 

Though  fire  to  vapor  melt  the  adamant, 

Or  feldspar  fall  in  drops  of  summer  rain. 

And  in  the  atoms  sleep  the  germs  of  life, 

Myriad  and  multiform  and  marvelous, 

Throughout  all  vast,  immeasurable  space, 

In  every  grain  of  dust,  in  every  drop 

Of  water,  waiting  but  the  Master's  wand. 

Yea,  in  the  womb  of  nature  slumber  still 

Wonders  undreamed  and  forms  beyond  compare, 

Minds  that  will  cleave  the  chaos  and  unwind 

The  web  of  fate,  and  from  the  atom  trace 

The  worlds,  the  suns,  the  universal  law; 

And  from  the  law,  the  Master;  yea,  and  read 

On  yon  grand  starry  scroll  the  Master's  will." 

Yea,  but  what  Master?     Lift  the  veil,  O  Time! 
Where  lie  the  bounds  of  Space  and  whither  dwells 
The  Power  unseen — the  infinite  Unknown  ? 
Faint  from  afar  the  solemn  answer  fell: 

Cycle  on  cycle,  asons  my riad-y eared, 

Swifter  than  light  out-flashing  from  the  suns, 

My  flying  feet  have  sought  the  bounds  of  space 

And  found  not,  nor  the  infinite  Unknown. 

I  see  the  Master  only  in  his  work; 

I  see  the  Ruler  only  in  his  law: 

Time  hath  not  touched  the  great  All-father's  throne, 

Whose  silent  voice  the  Universe  obeys, 

Who  breathes  upon  the  deep  and  worlds  are  born. 

Worlds  wax  and  wane,  suns  crumble  into  ash, 


180  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  OAK 

But  matter  pregnant  with  immortal  life, 

Since  erst  the  white-haired  centuries  wheeled  the  vast, 

Hath  lost  nor  gained.     Who  made  it,  and  who  made 

The  Maker  ?     Out  of  nothing — nothing.     Lo 

The  worm  that  crawls  from  out  the  sun-touched  sand, 

What  knows  he  of  the  huge,  round,  rolling  Earth? 

Yet  more  than  thou  of  all  the  vast  Beyond, 

Or  ever  wilt.     Content  thee;  let  it  be: 

Know  only  this — there  is  a  Power  unknown — 

Master  of  life  and  builder  of  the  worlds." 


AN  OLD  ENGLISH  OAK 


Silence  is  the  voice  of  mighty  things. 
In^silence  dropped  the  acorn  in  the  rain; 
In  silence  slept  till  sun- touched.     Wondrous  life 
Peeped  from  the  mold  and  ope'd  its  eyes  on  morn. 
Up-grew  in  silence  through  a  thousand  years 
The  Titan-armed,  gnarl- join  ted,  rugged  oak, 
Rock-rooted.     Through  his  beard  and  shaggy  locks 
Soft  breezes  sung  and  tempests  roared:  the  rain 
A  thousand  summers  trickled  down  his  beard; 
A  thousand  winters  whitened  on  his  head; 
Yet  spake  he  not.     He,  from  his  coigne  of  hills, 
Beheld  the  rise  and  fall  of  empire,  saw 
The  pageantry  and  perjury  of  kings, 
The  feudal  barons  and  the  slavish  churls, 
The  peace  of  peasants;  heard  the  merry  song 
Of  mowers  singing  to  the  swing  of  scythes, 
The  solemn- voiced,  low- wailing  funeral  dirge 
Winding  slow-paced  with  death  to  humble  graves; 
And  heard  the  requiem  sung  for  coffined  kings. 


-     AN  OLD  ENGLISH  OAK  181 

Saw  castles  rise  and  castles  crumble  down, 
Abbeys  up-loom  and  clang  their  solemn  bells, 
And  heard  the  owl  hoot  ruin  on  their  walls: 
Beheld  a  score  of  battle  fields  corpse-strewn — 
Blood-fertiled  with  ten  thousand  flattered  fools 
Who,  but  to  please  the  vanity  of  one, 
Marched  on  hurrahing  to  the  doom  of  death — 
And  spake  not,  neither  sighed  nor  made  a  moan. 
Saw  from  the  blood  of  heroes  roses  spring, 
And  where  the  clangor  of  steel-sinewed  War 
Roared  o'er  embattled  rage,  heard  gentle  Peace 
To  bleating  hills  and  vales  of  rustling  gold 
Flute  her  glad  notes  from  morn  till  even-tide. 
Grim  with  the  grime  of  a  thousand  years  he  stood — 
Grand  in  his  silence,  mighty  in  his  years. 
Under  his  shade  the  maid  and  lover  wooed; 
Under  his  arms  their  children's  children  played 
And  lambkins  gamboled ;  at  his  feet  by  night 
The  heart- sick  wanderer  laid  him  down  and  died, 
And  he  looked  on  in  silence. 

Silent  hours 

In  ghostly  pantomime  on  tip-toe  tripped 
The  stately  minuet  of  the  passing  years, 
Until  the  horologe  of  Time  struck  One. 
Black  Thunder  growled  and  from  his  throne  of  gloom 
Fire-flashed  the  night  with  hissing  bolt,  and  lo, 
Heart-split,  the  giant  of  a  thousand  years 
Uttered  one  voice  and  like  a  Titan  fell, 
Crashing  one  hammer-clang,  and  passed  away. 


CHANGE 


Change  is  the  order  of  the  universe. 
Worlds  wax  and  wane;   suns  die  and  stars  are]born. 
Two  atoms  of  cosmic  dust  unite,  cohere — 
And  lo  the  building  of  a  world  begun. 
On  all  things — high  or  low,  or  great  or  small — 
Earth,  ocean,  mountain,  mammoth,  midge  and  man, 
On  mind  and  matter — see  perpetual  change — 
God's  fiat — stamped!     The  very  bones  of  man 
Change  as  he  grows  from  infancy  to  age. 
His  loves,  his  hates,  his  tastes,  his  fancies,  change. 
His  blood  and  brawn  demand  a  change  of  food; 
His  mind  as  well:  the  sweetest  harp  of  heaven 
Were  hateful  if  it  played  the  selfsame  tune 
Forever,  and  the  fairest  flower  that  gems 
The  garden,  if  it  bloomed  throughout  the  year, 
Would  blush  unsought.     The  most  delicious  fruits 
Pall  on  our  palate  if  we  taste  too  oft, 
And  Hyblan  honey  turns  to  bitter  gall. 
Perpetual  winter  is  a  reign  of  gloom; 
Perpetual  summer  hardly  pleases  more. 
Behold  the  Esquimau — the  Hottentot: 
This  doomed  to  regions  of  perpetual  ice. 
And  that  to  constant  summer's  heat  and  glow: 
Inferior  both,  both  gloomy  and  unblessed. 

182 


CHANGE  183 

The  home  of  happiness  and  plenty  lies 

Where  autumn  follows  summer  and  the  breath 

Of  spring  melts  into  rills  the  winter's  snows. 

How  gladly,  after  summer's  blazing  suns, 

We  hail  the  autumn  frosts  and  autumn  fruits: 

How  blithesome  seems  the  fall  of  feathery  snow 

When  winter  comes  with  merry  tinkling  bells : 

And  after  winter's  reign  of  ice  and  storm 

How  glad  we  hail  the  robins  of  the  spring. 

For  God  hath  planted  in  the  hearts  of  men 

The  love  of  change,  and  sown  the  seeds  of  change 

In  earth  and  air  and  sea  and  shoreless  space. 

Day  follows  night  and  night  the  dying  day, 

And  every  day — and  every  hour — is  change; 

From  when  on  dewy  hills  the  rising  dawn 

Sprinkles  her  mists  of  silver  in  the  east, 

Till  in  the  west  the  golden  dust  up-wheels 

Behind  the  chariot  of  the  setting  sun; 

From  when  above  the  hills  the  evening  star 

Sparkles  a  diamond  'mong  the  grains  of  gold, 

Until  her  last  faint  flicker  on  the  sea. 

The  voices  of  the  hoar  and  hurrying  years 

Cry  from  the  silence — "Change! — perpetual  Change !" 

Man's  heart  responding  throbs — "Perpetual  Change," 

And  grinds  like  a  mill-stone :  wanting  grists  of  change 

It  grinds  and  grinds  upon  its  troubled  self. 

Behold  the  flowers  that  spring  and  bloom  and  fade. 

Behold  the  blooming  maid:   the  song  of  larks 

Is  in  her  warbling  throat;   the  blue  of  heaven 

Is  in  her  eyes;   her  loosened  tresses  fall 

A  shower  of  gold  on  shoulders  tinged  with  rose; 

Her  form  a  seraph's  and  her  gladsome  face 

A  benediction.     Lo  beneath  her  feet 


184  CHANGE 

The  loving  pansy  bursts  in  sudden  bloom. 
Fawn-eyed  and  full  of  gentleness  she  moves — 
A  sunbeam  on  the  lawn.     The  hearts  of  men 
Follow  her  footsteps.     He  whose  sinewy  arms 
Might  burst  through  bars  of  steel  like  bands  of  straw, 
Caught  in  the  net  of  her  unloosened  hair, 
A  helpless  prisoner  lies  and  loves  his  chains. 
Blow,  ye  soft  winds,  from  sandal-shaded  isles, 
And  bring  the  mogra's  breath  and  orange-bloom. 

Fly,  fleet-winged  doves,  to  Ponce  de  Leon's  spring, 
And  in  your  bills  bring  her  the  pearls  of  youth ; 
For  ah ! — the  fingers  of  relentless  Time 
Weave  threads  of  silver  in  among  the  gold, 
And  seam  her  face  with  pain  and  carking  care, 
Till,  bent  and  bowed,  the  shriveled  hands  of  Death 
Reach  from  the  welcome  grave  and  draw  her  in. 


CHICKADEE 


Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee! 
That  was  the  song  that  he  sang  to  me — 
Sang  from  his  perch  in  the  willow  tree — 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee. 

My  little  brown  bird, 

The  song  that  I  heard 

Was  a  happier  song  than  the  minstrels  sing — 
A  carol  of  joy  and  a  paean  of  spring; 
And  my  heart  leaped  throbbing  and  sang  with  thee 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee. 

My  birdie  looked  wise 

With  his  little  black  eyes, 
As  he  peeked  and  peered  from  his  perch  at  me 
With  a  throbbing  throat  and  a  flutter  of  glee, 

As  if  he  would  say — 

Sing  trouble  away. 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee. 

Only  one  note 

From  his  silver  throat; 

Only  one  word 

From  my  wise  little  bird; 
But  a  sweeter  note  or  a  wiser  word 
From  the  tongue  of  mortal  I  never  have  heard, 
Than  my  little  philosopher  sang  to  me 
From  his  bending  perch  in  the  willow  tree — 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee. 
185 


186  FAME 

Come  foul  or  fair, 
Come  trouble  and  care — 
No — never  a  sigh 
Or  a  thought  of  despair! 
For  my  little  bird  sings  in  my  heart  to  me, 
As  he  sang  from  his  perch  in  the  willow  tree- 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee: 
Chickadee-dee,  chickadee-dee; 
Chickadee,  chickadee,  chickadee-dee. 


FAME 


Dust  of  the  desert  are  thy  walls 

And  temple-towers,  O  Babylon! 
O'er -crumbled  halls  the  lizard  crawls, 

And  serpents  bask  in  blaze  of  sun. 

In  vain  kings  piled  the  Pyramids; 

Their  tombs  were  robbed  by  ruthless  hands. 
Who'now  shall  sing  their  fame  and  deeds, 

Or^sift  their  ashes  from  the  sands  ? 

Deep  in  the  drift  of  ages  hoar 
Lie  nations  lost  and  kings  forgot; 

Above  their  graves  the  oceans  roar, 
Or  desert  sands  drift  o'er  the  spot. 

A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day 

When  reckoned  on  the  wrinkled  earth; 

And  who  among  the  wise  shall  say 
What  cycle  saw  the  primal  birth 


FAME  187 

Of  man,  who  lords  on  sea  and  land, 

And  builds  his  monuments  to-day, 
Like  Syrian  on  the  desert  sand, 

To  crumble  and  be  blown  away. 

Proud  chiefs  of  pageant  armies  led 

To  fame  and  death  their  followers  forth, 
Ere  Helen  sinned  and  Hector  bled, 

Or  Odin  ruled  the  rugged  North. 

And  poets  sang  immortal  praise 

To  mortal  heroes  ere  the  fire 
Of  Homer  blazed  in  Ilion  lays, 

Or  Brage  tuned  the  Northern  lyre. 

For  fame  men  piled  the  Pyramids; 

Their  names  have  perished  with  their  bones : 
For  fame  men  wrote  their  boasted  deeds 

On  Babel  bricks  and  Runic  stones — 

On  Tyrian  temples,  gates  of  brass, 

On  Roman  arch  and  Damask  blades, 
And  perished  like  the  desert  grass 

That  springs  to-day — to-morrow — fades. 

And  still  for  fame  men  delve  and  die 

In  Afric  heat  and  Arctic  cold; 
For  fame  on  flood  and  field  they  vie, 

Or  gather  in  the  shining  gold. 

Time,  like  the  ocean,  onward  rolls 

Relentless,  burying  men  and  deeds; 
The  brightest  names,  the  bravest  souls, 

Float  but  an  hour  like  ocean  weeds, 


188  FAME 

Then  sink  forever.     In  the  slime — 

Forgotten,  lost  forevermore, 
Lies  Fame  from  every  age  and  clime; 
Yet  thousands  clamor  on  the  shore. 

Immortal  Fame! — O  dust  and  death! 

The  centuries  as  they  pass  proclaim 
That  Fame  is  but  a  mortal  breath, 

And  man  must  perish — name  and  fame. 

The  earth  is  but  a  grain  of  sand — 
An  atom  in  a  shoreless  sea; 

A  million  worlds  lie  in  God's  hand — 
Yea,  myriad  millions — what  are  we? 

O  mortal  man  of  bone  and  blood, 
Then  is  there  nothing  left  but  dust? 

God  made  us;   He  is  wise  and  good, 
And  we  may  humbly  hope  and  trust. 


MINNETONKA* 


I  sit  once  more  on  breezy  shore  at  sunset  in  this  glorious  June, 
I  hear  the  dip  of  gleaming  oar,  I  list  the  singers'  merry  tune. 
Beneath  my  feet  the  waters  beat,  and  ripple  on  the  polished  stones, 
The  squirrel  chatters  from  his  seat;    the  bag-pipe  beetle  hums  and 

drones. 
The  pink  and  gold  in  blooming  wold, — the  green  hills  mirrored  in  the 

lake! 
The  deep,  blue  waters,  zephyr-rolled,  along  the  murmuring  pebbles 

break. 

The  maples  screen  the  ferns,  and  lean  the  leafy  lindens  o'er  the  deep; 
The  sapphire,  set  in  emerald  green,  lies  like  an  Orient  gem  asleep. 
The  crimson  west  glows  like  the  breast  of  Rhuddin\  when  he  pipes  in 

May, 

As  downward  droops  the  sun  to  rest,  and  shadows  gather  on  the  bay. 
In  amber  sky  the  swallows  fly  and  sail  and  circle  o'er  the  deep;  j 
The  light- winged  night-hawks  whir  and  cry;    the  silver  perch  and 

pickerel  leap. 
The  rising  moon,  o'er  isle  and  dune,  looks  laughing  down  on  lake  and 

lea; 

Weird  o'er  the  waters  shrills  the  loon;  the  high  starsjtwinkle  in  the  sea. 
From  bank  and  hill  the  whippowil  sends  piping  forth  his  flute-like 

notes, 

And  clear  and  shrill  the  answers  trill  from  leafy  isles  and  silver  throats. 
The  twinkling  light  on  cape  and  height;  the  hum  of  voices  on  the 

shores ; 

The  merry  laughter  on  the  night;  the  dip  and  plash  of  frolic  oars, — 
These  tell  the  tale.  On  hill  and  dale  the  cities  pour  their  gay  and  fair; 
Along  the  sapphire  lake  they  sail,  and  quaff  like  wine  the  balmy  air. 

*The  Dakota  name  for  this  beautiful  lake  is  M e-ne-a-tan-ka  (pronounced  Mene-ah-tahn-kah) — 
Broad  Water.     By  dropping  the  "a"  before  "tanka"  we  have  changed  the  name  to  Big  Water. 
tThe  Welsh  name  for  the  robin. 

189 


190  MINNETONKA 

Tis  well.      Of  yore  from  isle  and  shore  the  smoke  of  Indian 

rose; 

The  hunter  plied  the  silent  oar;   the  forest  lay  in  still  repose. 
The  moon-faced  maid,  in  leafy  glade,  her  warrior  waited  from  the 

chase; 
The  nut-brown,  naked  children  played,  and  chased  the  gopher  on  the 

grass. 

The  dappled  fawn  on  wooded  lawn  peeped  out  upon  the  birch  canoe, 
Swift-gliding  in  the  gray  of  dawn  along  the  silent  waters  blue. 
In  yonder  tree  the  great  Wanm-dee^  securely  built  her  spacious  nest; 
The  blast  that  swept  the  landlocked  sea  but  rocked  her  clamorous 

babes  to  rest. 

By  grassy  mere  the  elk  and  deer  gazed  on  the  hunter  as  he  came ; 
Nor  fled  with  fear  from  bow  or  spear; — "so  wild  were  they  that  they 

were  tame." 

Ah,  birch  canoe,  and  hunter,  too,  have  long  forsaken  lake  and  shore ; 
He  bade  his  fathers'  bones  adieu  and  turned  away  forevermore. 
But  still,  methinks,  on  dusky  brinks  the  spirit  of   the  warrior  moves; 
At  crystal  springs  the  hunter  drinks,  and  nightly  haunts  the  spot  he 

loves. 

For  oft  at  night  I  see  the  light  of  lodge-fires  on  the  shadowy  shores, 
And  hear  the  wail  some  maiden's  sprite  above  her  slaughtered  warrior 

pours. 

I  hear  the  sob,  on  Spirit  Knob,  J  of  Indian  mother  o'er  her  child; 
And  on  the  midnight  waters  throb  her  low  yun-he-he's§  weird  and  wild: 
And  some  times,too,  the  light  canoe  glides  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  deep 
At  midnight  when  the  moon  is  low,  and  all  the  shores  are  hushed  in 

sleep. 

Alas, — Alas! — for  all  things  pass;    and  we  shall  vanish  too,  as  they; 
We  build  our  monuments  of  brass,  and  granite,  but  they  waste  away. 

"Lodges.  tWanm-dee — the  war-eagle  of  the  Dakotas. 

tSpirit-Knob  was  a  small  hill  upon  a  point  in  the  lake  in  full  view  from  Wayzata.  It  is  now 
•ntirely  washed  away  by  the  waves.  The  spirit  of  a  Dakota  mother,  whose  only  child  was  drowned 
in  the  lake  during  a  storm  many  years  ago,  often  wailed  at  midnight  (so  the  Dakotas  said),  on  thi» 
hill.  So  they  called  it  Wa-na-gee  Pa-zo-dan — Spirit- Knob.  (Literally — little  hill  of  the  spirit.) 

§Pronounced  Yoon-hay-hay — the  exclamation  used  by  Dakota  women  in  their  lament  for  th« 
dead,  and  equivalent  to  "woe-is-me."  It  closely  resembles  the  Ululoo  of  the  Irish,  and  the  Coro 
nach  of  the  old  Highlanders. 


MEN 


Man  is  a  creature  of  a  thousand  whims, 
The  slave  of  hope  and  fear  and  circumstance. 
Through  toil  and  martyrdom  a  million  years 
Struggling  and  groping  upward  from  the  brute, 
And  ever  dragging  still  the  brutish  chains, 
And  ever  slipping  backward  to  the  brute. 
Shall  he  not  break  the  galling,  brazen  bonds 
That  bind  him  writhing  on  the  wheel  of  fate  ? 
Long  ages  groveling  with  his  brother  brutes, 
He  plucked  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  uprose 
And  walked  erect — a  god;  but  died  the  death: 
For  knowledge  brings  but  sadness  and  unrest 
Forever,  insatiate  longing  and  regret. 
Behold  the  brute's  unerring  instinct  guides 
True  as  the  pole-star,  while  man's  reason  leads 
How  oft  to  quicksands  and  the  hidden  reefs! 
Contented  brute,  his  daily  wants  how  few! 
And  these  by  Nature's  mother-hand  supplied. 
Man's  wants  unnumbered  and  unsatisfied, 
And  multiplied  at  every  onward  step — 
Insatiate  as  the  cavernous  maw  of  time. 
His  real  wants  how  simple  and  how  few! 
Behold  the  kine  in  yonder  pasture-field 
Cropping  the  clover,  or  in  rest  reclined, 
Chewing  meek-eyed  the  cud  of  sweet  content. 
Ambition  plagues  them  not,  nor  hope,  nor  fear; 

191 


192  MEN 

No  demons  fright  them  and  no  cruel  creeds: 
No  pangs  of  disappointment  or  remorse. 
See  man  the  picture  of  perpetual  want, 
The  prototype  of  all  disquietude ; 
Full  of  trouble,  yet  ever  seeking  more; 
Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stone 
Ground  and  forever  in  the  mill  of  fate. 
Nature  and  art  combine  to  clothe  his  form, 
To  feed  his  fancy  and  to  fill  his  maw; 
And  yet  the  more  they  give  the  more  he  craves. 
Give  him  the  gold  of  Ophir,  still  he  delves; 
Give  him  the  land,  and  he  demands  the  sea; 
Give  him  the  earth — he  reaches  for  the  stars. 
Doomed  by  his  fate  to  scorn  the  good  he  has 
And  grasp  at  fancied  good  beyond  his  reach, 
He  seeks  for  silver  in  the  distant  hills 
While  in  the  sand  gold  glimmers  at  his  feet. 


O  man,  thy  wisdom  is  but  folly  still; 
Wiser  the  brute  and  full  of  sweet  content. 
The  wit  and  wisdom  of  five  thousand  years — 
What  are  they  but  the  husks  we  feed  upon, 
While  beast  and  bird  devour  the  golden  grain  ? 
Lo  for  the  brutes  dame  Nature  sows  and  tills; 
For  them  the  Tuba-tree  of  Paradise 
Bends  with  its  bounties  free  and  manifold; 
For  them  the  fabled  fountain  Salsabil, 
Gushes  pure  wine  that  sparkles  as  it  runs, 
And  fair  Al  Cawthar  flows  with  creamy  milk. 
But  man,  forever  doomed  to  toil  and  sweat, 
Digs  the  hard  earth  and  casts  his  seeds  therein, 
And  hopes  the  harvest ; — how  oft  he  hopes  in  vain ! 
Weeds  choke,  winds  blast,  and  myriad  pests  devour, 
The  hot  sun  withers  and  the  floods  destroy. 


MEN  193 

Unceasing  labor,  vigilance  and  care 

Reward  him  here  and  there  with  bounteous  store. 

Had  man  the  blessed  wisdom  of  content, 

Happy  were  he — as  wise  Horatius  sung — 

To  whom  God  gives  enough  with  sparing  hand. 

Of  all  the  crops  by  sighing  mortals  sown, 

And  watered  with  man's  sweat  and  woman's  tears, 

There  is  but  only  one  that  never  fails 

In  drouth  or  flood,  on  fat  or  flinty  soil, 

On  Nilus'  banks  or  Scandia's  stony  hills — 

The  plenteous,  never  stinted  crop  of  fools. 

So  hath  it  been  since  erst  aspiring  man 

Broke  from  the  brute  and  plucked  the  fatal  tree, 

And  will  be  till  eternity  grows  gray. 

Princes  and  parasites  comprise  mankind: 

To  one  wise  prince  a  million  parasites ; 

The  most  uncommon  thing  is  common-sense; 

A  truly  wise  man  is  a  freak  of  nature. 

The  herd  are  parasites  of  parasites 

That  blindly  follow  priest  or  demagogue, 

Himself  blind  leader  of  the  blind.     The  wise 

Weigh  words,  but  by  the  yard  fools  measure  them. 

The  wise  beginneth  at  the  end;  the  fool 

Ends  at  the  beginning,  or  begins  anew  : 

Aye,  every  ditch  is  full  of  after- wit. 

Folly  sows  broad-cast ;  Wisdom  gathers  in, 

And  so  the  wise  man  fattens  on  the  fool, 

And  from  the  follies  of  the  foolish  learns 

Wisdom  to  guide  himself  and  bridle  them. 

"To-morrow  I  made  my  fortune,"  boasts  the  fool, 

"To-day  I'll  spend  it."     Thus  will  Folly  eat 

His  chicken  ere  the  hen  hath  laid  the  egg. 

So  Folly  blossoms  with  promises  all  the  year — 

Promises  that  bud  and  blossom  but  to  blast. 


194  MEN 

"All  men  are  fools,"  said  Socrates,  the  wise, 
And  in  the  broader  sense  I  grant  it  true, 
For  even  Socrates  had  his  Xanthipp'. 
Whose  head  is  wise  oft  hath  a  foolish  heart; 
The  wisest  has  more  follies  than  he  needs; 
Wisdom  and  madness,  too,  are  near  akin. 
The  marrow-maddening  canker-worm  of  love 
Feeds  on  the  brains  of  wise  men  as  on  fools'. 

The  wise  man  gathers  wisdom  from  all  men, 
As  bees  their  honey  hive  from  plant  and  weed. 
Yea,  from  the  varied  history  of  the  world, 
From  the  experience  of  all  times,  all  men, 
The  wise  man  learneth  wisdom.     Folly  learns 
From  his  own  bruises  if  he  learn  at  all. 
The  fool — born  wise — what  need  hath  he  to  learn  ? 
He  needs  but  gabble  wisdom  to  the  world: 
Grill  him  on  a  gridiron  and  he  gabbles  still. 

Wise  men  there  be — wise  in  the  eyes  of  men — 
Who  cram  their  hollow  heads  with  ancient  wit 
Cackled  in  Carthage,  babbled  in  Babylon, 
Gabbled  in  Greece  and  riddled  in  old  Rome, 
And  never  coin  a  farthing  of  their  own. 
Wise  men  there  be — for  owls  are  counted  wise — 
Who  love  to  leave  the  lamp-lit  paths  behind, 
And  chase  the  shapeless  shadow  of  a  doubt : 
Too  wise  to  learn,  too  wise  to  see  the  truth, 
E'en  though  it  glow  and  sparkle  like  a  gem 
On  God's  outstretched  forefinger  for  all  time. 
These  have  one  argument,  and  only  one, 
For  good  or  evil,  earth  or  jeweled  heaven — 
The  olden,  owlish  argument  of  Doubt. 
Ah,  he  alone  is  wise  who  ever  stands 
Armed  cap-a-pie  with  God's  eternal  truth. 


MEN  195 

Where  Grex*  is  Rex  God  help  the  hapless  land. 

The  yelping  curs  that  bay  the  rising  moon 

Are  not  more  clamorous,  and  the  fitful  winds 

Not  more  inconstant.     List  the  croaking  frogs 

That  raise  their  heads  in  fen  or  stagnant  pool, 

Shouting  at  eve  their  wisdom  from  the  mud. 

Beside  the  braying,  bleating,  bellowing  mob 

Their  jarring  discords  are  sweet  harmony. 

The  headless  herd  are  but  a  noise  of  wind ; 

Sometimes,  alas,  the  wild  tornado's  roar: 

As  full  of  freaks  as  curs  are  full  of  fleas ; 

Like  gnats  they  swarm,  like  flies  they  buzz  and  breed. 

Thought  works  in  silence :  Wisdom  stops  to  think. 

No  ass  so  obstinate  as  ignorance. 

Oft  as  they  seize  the  ship  of  state,  behold — 

Overboard  goes  all  ballast  and  they  crowd 

To  blast  or  breeze  or  hurricane  full  sail, — 

Each  dunce  a  pilot  and  a  captain  too. 

How  often  cross-eyed  Justice  hits  amiss! 

Justice  is  blind,  ;tis  said,  and  deaf  and  cold: 

Oft  with  her  poise  shrewd  villains  play  their  tricks: 

They  sometimes  touch  her  sacred  scales  with  gold, 

Or  soil  her  sandaled  feet  in  politics, 

Doomed  by  Athenian  mobs  to  banishment. 

See  Aristides  leave  the   land  he  loved : 

Wisdom  his  fault  and  justice  his  offense. 

See  Caesar  crowned  a  god  and  Tully  slain  ; 

See  Paris  red  with  riot  and  noble  blood ; 

A  king  beheaded  and  a  monster  throned. 

King  Drone,  flat  fool  that  weather-cocked  all  winds, 

Gulped  gall  and  vinegar  and  smacked  it  wine, 

Wig- wagged  his  way  from  gilded  (Eil  de  Boeuf 

Through  mob  and  maelstrom  to  the  guillotine. 

Chateaus  up-blazing  torch  the  doom  of  France, 

The  mob.     Rex — King. 


196  MEN 

While  human  wolves  howl  ruin  round  their  walls. 
Contention  hisses  from  a  million  mouths, 
And  from  ten  thousand  muttering  craters  smokes 
The  smell  of  sulphur.     Gaul  becomes  a  ghoul; 
While  Parlez-Tous  in  hot  harangues  uproar 
Hubbub  ad  Bedlam — Pandemonium  thriced. 
There,  voices  drowning  voice  with  frantic  cries, 
Discord  demented  flaps  her  ruffled  wings 
And  shrieks  delirium  to  her  screeching  brood. 
Sneer-lipped,  hawk-eyed,  wolf-tongued  oraculars — 
Wise-wigs,  Girondins,  frothing  Jacobins — 
Reason  to  madness  run,  tongues  venom-tanged — 
Howl  riot  all  with  one  united  throat. 
Maelstrom  of  madness,  lazar-howled,  hag-shrilled! 
Quack  quackles  quack;   all  doctors  disagree, 
While  Doctor  Guillotine's  huge  scalpel  heads 
Hell-dogs  beheading  helpless  innocents. 
The  very  babes  bark  rabies.     Journalism, 
Moon-mad,  green-eyed,  hound-scented,  lupus-tongued, 
On-howls  the  pack  and  smells  her  bread  in  blood. 

O  Tempus  ferax  insanorum,  Heu! 
Physicked  with  metaphysics,  pamphleteered 
Into  paroxysms,  bruited  into  brutes, 
And  metamorphosed  into  murder,  lo 
Men  lapse  to  savagery  and  turn  to  beasts. 
Hell-broth  hag-boiled:   a  mad  Theroigne  is  queen — 
Mounts  to  the  brazen  throne  of  Harlotdom, 
Queen  of  the  cursed,  and  flares  her  cannon-torch. 
Watch-wolves,  lean-jawed,  fore-smelling  feast  of  blood, 
In  packs  on  Paris  howl  from  farthest  France. 
Discord  demented  bursts  the  bounds  of  Dis; 
Mad  Murder  raves  and  Horror  holds  her  hell. 
Hades  up-heaves  her  whelps.     In  human  forms 
Up-flare  the  Furies,  serpent-haired  and  grin 


MEN  197 

Horrid  with  bloody  jaws.     Scaled  reptiles  crawl 

From  slum  and  sewer,  slimy,  coil  on  coil, — 

Danton,  dark  beast,  that  builded  for  himself 

A  monument  of  quicksand  limed  with  blood; 

Horse-leech  Marat,  blear-eyed,  vile  vulture  born; 

Fair  Charlotte's  dagger  robbed  the  guillotine! 

Black-biled,  green-visaged,  traitorous  Robespierre, 

That  buzzard-beaked,  hawk-taloned  octopus 

Who  played  with  pale  poltroonery  of  men, 

And  drank  the  cup  of  flattery  till  he  reeled; 

Hell's  king  uncrowned,  immortal  for  a  day. 

Tinville,  relentless  dog  of  murder-plot — 

Doom-judge  whose  trembling  victims  were  foredoomed; 

Maillard  who  sucked  his  milk  from  Murder's  dugs, 

Twin  whelp  to  Theroigne,  captain  of  the  hags; 

Jourdan,  red-grizzled  mule-son  blotched  with  blood, 

Headsman  forever  "famous-infamous;" 

Keen,  hag- whelped  journalist  Camille  Desmoulins, 

Who  with  a  hundred  other  of  his  ilk 

Hissed  on  the  hounds  and  smeared  his  bread  with  blood ; 

Lebon,  man-fiend,  that  vampire-ghoul  who  drank 

Hot  blood  of  headless  victims,  and  compelled 

Mothers  to  view  the  murder  of  their  babes; 

At  whose  red  guillotine,  in  Arras  raised, 

The  pipe  and  fiddle  played  at  every  fall 

Of  ghastly  head  the  ribald  "  Ca  Ira;'1 

And  fiends  unnamed  and  nameless  brutes  untaled. 

Petticoat-patriots  sans  bas,  and  Sans -culottes, 
Rampant  in  rags  and  hunger-toothed  uproar 
Paris  the  proud.     With  Jacobin  clubs  they  club 
The  head  of  France  till  all  her  brains  are  out. 
Hired  murder  hunts  in  packs.     Men  murder-mad 
Slay  for  the  love  of  murder.     Gloomy  night, 
Hiding  her  stars  lest  they  in  pity  fall, 


198  MEN 

Beholds  a  thousand  guiltless,  trembling  souls — 

Men,  women,  children — forth  from  prisons  flung 

In  flare  of  torch  and  glare  of  demon  eyes, 

Among  the  howling  wolves  and  lazar-hags; 

Crying  for  mercy  where  no  mercy  is, 

Hewed  down  in  heaps  by  bloody  ax  and  pike. 

From  their  grim  battlements  the  imps  of  hell 

Indignant  hissed  and  damped  their  fires  with  tears; 

And  Manhood  from  the  watch-towers  of  the  world 

Cried  in  the  name  of  Human  Nature — "Hold!" 

As  well  the  drifting  nautilus  might  strive 

To  still  the  volcan-heaved,  storm-maddened  sea. 

Blood-frenzied  beasts  demand  their  feast  of  blood. 

" Liberty — Equality — Fraternity!" — the  cry 

Of  blood-hounds  baying  on  the  track  of  babes. 

Queen  Innocent  beheaded — mother-queen ! 

And  queenly  Roland — Nature's  queenly  queen! 

Aye,  at  the  foot  of  bloody  guillotine 

She  stood  a  heroine :  before  her  loomed 

The  Goddess  of  Liberty — in  statue-stone. 

Queen  Roland  saw,  and  spake  the  words  that  ring 

Along  the  centuries — "O  Liberty! 

What  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name!" — and  died. 

And  when  the  headsman  raised  her  severed  head 

To  hell-dogs  shouting  "  Vive  la  Liberte," 

Godlike  disdain  still  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

The  Prince  of  Hell  in  pity  stood  aghast, 

Clanged  shut  his  doors  and  stopped  his  ears  with  pitch. 

See  the  wise  ruler — father  of  Brazil, 
Who  struck  the  shackles  from  a  million  slaves, 
Whose  reign  was  peace  and  love  and  gentleness, 
Despoiled  and  banished  from  the  land  he  loved. 
See  jealous  Labor  strike  the  hand  that  feeds, 
And  burn  the  mills  that  grind  his  daily  bread; 


MEN  199 

Yea,  in  blind  rage  denounce  the  very  laws 

That  shield  his  home  from  Europe's  pauperdom. 

See  the  grieved  farmer  raise  his  horny  hand 

And  splutter  garlic.     Hear  the  demagogues 

Fist-maul  the  wind  and  weather-cock  the  crowd, 

With  brazen  faces  full  of  empty  noise 

Out-bellowing  the  bulls  of  Bashan;  and  behold 

Shrill,  wrinkled  Amazons  in  high  harangue 

Stamp  their  flat  feet  and  gnash  their  toothless  gums, 

And  flaunt  their  petticoat-flag  of  "Liberty." 

Hear  the  old  bandogs  of  the  Daily  Press, 

Chained  to  their  party  posts,  or  fetter- free 

And  running  amuck  against  old  party  creeds, 

On-howl  their  packs  and  glory  in  the  fight. 

See  mangy  curs,  whose  editorial  ears 

Prick  to  all  winds  to  catch  the  popular  breeze, 

Slang- whanging  yelp,  and  froth  and  snap  and  snarl, 

And  sniff  the  gutters  for  their  daily  food. 

And  these — are  they  our  prophets  and  our  priests? 

Hurra!— Hurra  !— Hurra!— for  "Liberty!" 

Flaunt  the  red  flag  and  flutter  the  petticoat ; 

Ran-tan  the  drums  and  let  the  bugles  bray, 

The  eagle  scream  and  ninety  million  throats 

Sing  Yankee-doodle — Yankee-doodle-doo. 

The  state  is  sick  and  every  fool  a  quack 
Running  with  pills  and  plasters  and  sure-cures, 
And  every  pill  and  package  labelled  Ism. 
See  Liberty  run  mad,  and  Anarchy, 
Bearing  the  torch,  the  dagger  and  the  bomb, 
Red-mouthed  run  riot  in  her  sacred  name. 
Hear  mobs  of  idlers  cry — "Equality! 
Let  all  men  share  alike:  divide — divide!" 
Butting  their  heads  against  the  granite  rocks 
Of  Nature  and  the  eternal  laws  of  God. 


200  MEN 

Pull  down  the  toiler,  lift  the  idler  up  ? 

Despoil  the  frugal,  crown  the  negligent  ? 

Offer  rewards  for  idleness  and  crime  ? 

And  pay  a  premium  for  improvidence  ? 

Fools,  can  your  wolfish  cries  repeal  the  laws 

Of  God  engraven  on  the  granite  hills, 

Written  in  every  wrinkle  of  the  earth, 

On  every  plain,  on  every  mountain-top, — 

Nay,  blazoned  throughout  the  boundless  Universe 

On  every  jewel  that  sparkles  on  God's  throne  ? 

And  can  ye  rectify  God's  mighty  plan  ? 

O  midgets,  can  ye  measure  God  himself  ? 

Aye,  would  ye  measure  God's  almighty  power, 

Go — crack  Earth's  bones  and  heave  the  granite  hills; 

Measure  the  ocean  in  a  drinking-cup ; 

Measure  Eternity  by  the  town-clock; 

Nay,  with  a  yard-stick  measure  the  Universe: 

Measure  for  measure  measure  God  by  man! 

"Fools  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  your  bones!" 

O  buzzing  flies  and  gnats!   ye  cannot  strike 

One  little  atom  from  God's  Universe, 

Or  warp  the  laws  of  Nature  by  a  hair ! 

His  loving  eye  sees  through  all  evil  good. 
Man's  life  is  but  a  breath;   but  lo  with  Him 
To-day,  to-morrow,  yesterday,  are  one — 
One  in  the  cycle  of  eternal  time 
That  hath  beginning  none,  nor  any  end. 
The  Earth  revolving  round  her  sire,  the  Sun, 
Measures  the  flying  year  of  mortal  man, 
But  who  shall  measure  God's  eternal  year? 
The  unbegotten,  ever-living  God ; 
Unmade,  eternal,  all-pervading  power; 
Center  and  source  of  all  things,  high  and  low, 


MEN  201 

Maker  and  master  of  the  Universe. 
All  things  in  nature  bear  God's  signature 
So  plainly  writ  that  he  who  runs  may  read. 
We  know  not  what  life  is ;   how  may  we  know 
Death — what  it  is,  or  what  may  lie  beyond  ? 
Whoso  forgets  his  God  forgets  himself. 

Let  me  not  blindly  judge  my  brother  man : 

There  is  but  one  just  judge;   there  is  but  one 

Who  knows  the  hearts  of  men.     Him  let  us  praise — 

Not  with  blind  prayer,  or  idle,  sounding  psalms — 

But  let  us  daily  in  our  daily  works 

Praise  God  by  righteous  deeds  and  brother-love. 

Go  forth  into  the  forest  and  observe — 

For  men  believe  their  eyes  and  doubt  their  ears — 

The  creeping  vine,  the  shrub,  the  lowly  bush, 

The  dwarfed  and  stunted  trees,  the  bent  and  bowed, 

And  here  and  there  a  lordly  oak  or  elm, 

And  o'er  them  all  a  tall  and  princely  pine. 

All  struggle  upward,  but  the  many  fail; 

The  low  dwarfed  by  the  shadows  of  the  great, 

The  stronger  basking  in  the  genial  sun. 

Observe  the  myriad  fishes  of  the  seas — 

The  mammoths  and  the  minnows  of  the  deep. 

Behold  the  eagle  and  the  little  wren, 

The  condor  on  his  cliff,  the  pigeon-hawk, 

The  teal,  the  coot,  the  broad-winged  albatross. 

Turn  to  the  beasts  in  forest  and  in  field — 

The  lion,  the  lynx,  the  mammoth  and  the  mouse, 

The  sheep,  the  goat,  the  bullock  and  the  horse, 

The  fierce  gorillas  and  the  chattering  apes — 

Progenitors  and  prototypes  of  man. 

Not  only  differences  in  genera  find, 

But  grades  in  every  kind  and  every  class. 


202  MEN 

I  would  not  doom  to  serfdom  or  to  toil 
One  race,  one  caste,  one  class,  or  any  man: 
Give  every  honest  man  an  honest  chance; 
Protect  alike  the  rich  man  and  the  poor; 
Let  not  the  toiler  live  upon  a  crust 
While  Croesus'  bread  is  buttered  on  both  sides. 

O  people's  king  and  shepherd,  throned  Law, 

Strike  down  the  monsters  of  Monopoly. 

Lift  up  thy  club,  O  mighty  Hercules! 

Behold  thy  "Labors"  yet  unfinished  are: 

Tear  off  thy  Nessus  shirt  and  bare  thine  arms. 

The  Numean  lion  fattens  on  our  flocks; 

The  Lernean  Hydra  coils  around  our  farms, 

Our  towns,  our  mills,  our  mines,  our  factories : 

The  triple  monster  Geryon  lives  again, 

Grown  quadruple,  and  over  all  our  plains 

And  thousand  hills  his  fattening  oxen  feed. 

Stymphalean  buzzards  ravage  round  our  fields; 

The  Augean  stables  reeking  stench  the  land; 

The  hundred-headed  monster  Cerberus, 

That  throttled  Greece  and  ravaged  hapless  France, 

Hath  broke  from  hell  and  howls  for  human  blood. 

Lift  up  thy  knotted  club,  O  Hercules! 

Strike  swift  and  sure:   crush  down  the  Hydra's  heads; 

Throttle  the  Numean  lion :   strike  —  nor  spare 

The  monster  Geryon  or  the  buzzard-beaks. 

Clean  the  Augean  stables  if  thou  can'st; 

But  hurl  the  hundred-headed  monster  down 

Headlong  to  Hades:   chain  him;   make  thee  sure 

He  shall  not  burst  the  bonds  of  hell  again. 

To  you,  O  chosen  makers  of  the  laws, 

The  nation  looks — and  shall  it  look  in  vain  ? 

Will  ye  sit  idle,  or  in  idle  wind 


MEN  203 

Blow  out  your  zeal,  and  crack  your  party  whips, 

Or  drivel  dotage,  while  the  crisis  cries; — 

While  all  around  the  dark  horizon  loom 

Clouds  thunder-capped  that  bode  a  hurricane  ? 

Sleep  ye  as  slept  the  "Notables"  of  France, 

While  under  them  an  hundred  ^Etnas  hissed 

And  spluttered  sulphur,  gathering  for  the  shock  ? 

Be  ye  our  Hercules — and  Lynceus-eyed : 

Still  ye  the  storm  or  ere  the  storm  begin — 

Ere  "Liberty"  take  Justice  by  the  throat, 

And  run  moon-mad  a  Malay  murder-muck. 

Throttle  the  "Trusts,"  and  crush  the  coils  combined 

That  crack  our  bones  and  fatten  on  our  fields. 

Strike  down  the  hissing  heads  of  Anarchy: 

Strike  swift  and  hard,  nor  parley  with  the  fiend 

Mothered  of  hell  and  father  of  all  fiends — 

Fell  monster  with  an  hundred  bloody  mouths ; 

In  every  mouth  an  hundred  hissing  tongues, 

And  every  tongue  drips  venom  from  his  fangs. 

Protect  the  toiling  millions  by  just  laws ; 

Let  honest  labor  find  its  sure  reward; 

Let  willing  hands  find  work  and  honest  bread. 

So  frame  the  laws  that  every  honest  man 

May  find  his  home  protected  and  his  craft. 

Let  Liberty  and  Order  walk  hand  in  hand 

With  Justice:   happy  Trio!   let  them  rule. 

Put  up  the  bars :  bar  out  the  pauper  swarms 

Alike  from  Asia's  huts  and  Europe's  hives. 

Let  charity  begin  at  home.     In  vain 

Will  we  bar  out  the  swarms  from  Europe's  hives 

And  Asia's  countless  lepers,  if  our  ports 

Are  free  to  all  the  products  of  their  hands. 

Put  up  the  bars:  bar  out  the  pauper  hordes; 

Bar  out  their  products  that  compete  with  ours: 


204  MEN 

Give  honest  toil  at  home  an  honest  chance: 
Build  up  our  own  and  keep  our  coin  at  home. 
In  vain  our  mines  pour  forth  their  tons  of  gold 
And  silver,  if  by  every  ship  they  sail 
For  London,  Paris,  Birmingham  and  Berlin. 

We  have  been  prodigal.     The  days  are  past 
When  virgin  acres  wanted  willing  hands, 
When  fertile  empires  lay  in  wilderness 
Waiting  the  teeming  millions  of  the  world. 
Lo  where  the  Indian  and  the  bison  roamed — 
Lords  of  the  prairies  boundless  as  the  sea — 
But  forty  years  ago,  behold  the  change! 
Homesteads  and  hamlets,  flocks  and  lowing  herds, 
Railways  and  cities,  miles  of  rustling  corn, 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  waving  fields  of  grain. 

Let  wise  men  teach  and  honest  men  proclaim 

The  mutual  dependence  of  the  rich  and  poor; 

For  if  the  wealthy  profit  by  the  poor, 

The  poor  man  profits  ever  by  the  rich. 

Wealth  builds  our  churches  and  our  colleges; 

Wealth  builds  the  mills  that  grind  the  millions'  bread; 

Wealth  builds  the  factories  that  clothe  the  poor; 

Wealth  builds  the  railways  and  the  millions  ride. 

God  hath  so  willed  the  toiling  millions  reap 

The  golden  harvest  that  the  rich  have  sown. 

Six  feet  of  earth  make  all  men  even;   lo 

The  toilers  are  the  rich  man's  heirs  at  last. 

But  there  be  men  would  grumble  at  their  lot, 

Even  if  it  were  a  corner-lot  on  Broadway. 

We  stand  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  past : 
Who  knoweth  not  the  past  how  may  he  know 
The  folly  or  the  wisdom  of  to-day  ? 


MEN  205 

For  by  comparison  we  weigh  the  good, 

And  by  comparison  all  evil  weigh. 

"What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know?" 

Let  honest  men  look  back  an  hundred  years — 

Nay,  fifty,  and  behold  the  wondrous  change. 

Where  wooden  tubs  like  sluggards  sailed  the  sea, 

Steam-ships  of  steel  like  greyhounds  course  the  main; 

Where  lumbering  coach  and  wain  and  wagon  toiled 

Through  mud  and  mire  and  rut  and  rugged  way, 

The  cushioned  train  a  mile  a  minute  fles; 

On  smooth  highways  the  "auto"  flies  as  fast. 

Then  by  slow  coach  the  message  went  and  came, 

But  now  by  lightning  bridled  to  man's  use 

We  flash  our  silent  thoughts  from  sea  to  sea; 

Nay,  under  ocean's  depths  from  shore  to  shore; 

And  talk  by  telephone  to  distant  ears. 

With  condor  wings  we  sail  above  the  clouds, 

And  send  aerial  telegrams  afar. 

The  dreams  of  yesterday  are  deeds  to-day. 

Our  frugal  mothers  spun  with  tedious  toil, 

And  wove  the  "homespun"  for  their  rugged  broods. 

Their  fingers  fashioned  and  with  needles  sewed. 

But  now  the  humming  factory  spins  and  weaves; 

The  singing  "Singer"  sews  with  toilless  speed. 

Our  fathers  sowed  their  little  fields  by  hand, 

And  reaped  with  bended  sickles  and  bent  backs ; 

With  sweat  and  toil  by  hand  they  bound  the  sheaves; 

With  flails  they  threshed  and  winnowed  in  the  wind. 

Now  by  machines  we  sow  and  reap  and  bind; 

By  steam  we  thresh  and  sack  the  golden  grain. 

These  are  but  few  of  all  the  thousand  ways 

Whereby  man's  toil  is  lightened  and  he  hath  gained 

Tenfold  in  comfort,  luxury  and  ease. 

For  these  and  more  the  millions  that  enjoy 

May  thank  the  wise  and  wealthy  few  who  gave. 


206  MEN 

If  the  rich  are  richer  the  poor  are  richer,  too. 
A  narrow  demagogue  I  count  the  man 
Who  cries  to-day — "Progress  and  Poverty"; 
As  if  a  thousand  added  comforts  made 
The  poor  man  poorer  and  his  lot  the  worse. 
Tis  but  a  new  toot  on  the  same  old  horn 
That  brayed  in  ancient  Greece  and  Babylon, 
And  now  amid  the  ruined  walls  of  Rome 
Lies  buried  fathom-deep  in  dead  men's  dust. 
Science  is  lesser  toil  and  greater  gain. 

"Progress  and  Poverty!"     Man,  hastthou  traced 
The  blood  that  throbs  commingled  in  thy  veins  ? 
Over  thy  shoulder  hast  thou  cast  a  glance 
On  thine  old  Celtic-Saxon-Norman  sires — 
Huddled  in  squalid  huts  on  beds  of  straw  ? — 
Besotted  churls  swine-herding  in  the  fens, 
Bare-legged  cowherds  in  their  cow-skin  coats, 
Wearing  the  collars  of  their  Thane  or  Eorl, 
His  serfs,  his  slaves,  even  as  thy  dog  is  thine; 
Harried  by  hunger,  pillaged,  ravaged,  slain, 
By  Viking  robbers  and  the  warring  Jarls; 
Oft  glad  like  hounded  swine  to  fill  their  maws 
With  herbs  and  acorns.     "Progress  and  Poverty?" 
The  humblest  laborer  in  our  mills  or  mines 
Is  royal  Thane  beside  those  slavish  churls; 
The  frugal  farmer  in  our  land  to-day 
Lives  better  than  their  kings — himself  a  king. 

Ah,  every  age  refutes  old  errors  still, 
And  still  begets  new  errors  for  the  next; 
But  all  the  creeds  of  politics  or  priests 
Can't  make  one  error  truth,  one  truth  a  lie. 
There  it  no  religion  higher  than  the  Truth; 
Men  make  the  creeds,  but  God  ordained  the  law. 


MEN  207 


Above  all  cant,  all  arguments  of  men, 
Above  all  superstitions,  old  or  new, 
Above  all  creeds  of  every  age  and  clime, 
Stands  God's  eternal  Truth — eternal  Law. 

Sweet  is  the  lute  to  him  who  hath  not  heard 
The  prattle  of  his  children  at  his  knees : 
Ah,  he  is  rich  indeed  whose  humble  home 
Contains  a  frugal  wife  and  sweet  content. 


BETZKO 

A    HUNGARIAN    LEGEND 

Stibor  had  led  in  many  a  fight, 
And  broken  a  score  of  swords 
In  furious  frays  and  bloody  raids 
Against  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  Sigismund,  the  Polish  king, 
Who  joined  the  Magyar  bands, 

Bestowed  upon  the  valiant  knight 
A  broad  estate  of  lands. 

Once  when  the  wars  were  over,  the  knight 

Was  holding  wassail  high, 
And  the  valiant  men  that  followed  him 

Were  at  the  revelry: 

Betzko,  his  Jester,  pleased  him  so 

He  vowed  it  his  the  task 
To  do  whatever  in  human  power 

His  witty  Fool  might  ask. 

"Build  on  yon  cliff,"  the  Jester  cried. 

In  drunken  jollity, 
"  A  mighty  castle  high  and  wide, 

And  name  it  after  me." 

"Ah,  verily  a  Jester's  prayer," 
Exclaimed  the  knightly  crew, 
208 


BETZKO  209 

"To  ask  of  such  a  noble  lord 
What  you  know  he  cannot  do." 

"Who  says  I  cannot,"  Stibor  cried, 

"Do  whatsoever  I  will? 
Within  one  year  a  castle  shall  stand 

On  yonder  rocky  hill — 

"A  castle  built  of  ponderous  stones, 

To  give  me  future  fame; 
In  honor  of  my  witty  Fool, 

Betzko  shall  be  its  name." 

Now  the  cliff  was  high  three  hundred  feet, 

And  perpendicular; 
And  the  skill  that  could  build  a  castle  there 

Must  come  from  lands  afar. 

And  craftsmen  came  from  foreign  lands, 

Italian,  German  and  Jew — 
Apprentices  and  fellow-craftsmen, 

And  master-masons,  too. 

And  every  traveler  journeying 

Along  the  mountain- ways 
Was  held  to  pay  his  toll  of  toil 

On  the  castle  for  seven  days. 

Slowly  they  raised  the  massive  towers 

Upon  the  steep  ascent, 
And  all  around  a  thousand  hands 

Built  up  the  battlement. 

Three  hundred  feet  above  the  glen — 

(By  the  steps  five  hundred  feet) — 
The  castle  stood  upon  the  cliff 

At  the  end  of  the  year — complete. 


210  BETZKO 

Now  throughout  all  the  Magyar  land 
There's  none  other  half  so  high, 

So  massive  built,  so  strong  and  grand; — 
It  reaches  the  very  sky. 

But  from  that  same  high  battlement 
(Say  tales  by  minstrels  told) 

The  valiant  Stibor  met  his  death 
When  he  was  cross  and  old. 

I'll  tell  you  the  tale  as  they  told  it  to  me, 

And  I  doubt  not  it  is  true, 
For  'twas  handed  down  from  the  middle  ages 

From  the  lips  of  knights  who  knew. 

One  day  when  the  knight  was  old  and  cross, 
And  a  little  the  worse  for  grog, 

Betzko,  the  Jester,  thoughtlessly 
Struck  Stibor's  favorite  dog. 

Now  the  dog  was  a  hound  and  Stibor's  pet, 
And  as  white  as  Carpathian  snow, 

And  Stibor  hurled  old  Betzko  down 
From  the  walls  to  the  rocks  below. 

And  as  the  Jester  headlong  fell 
From  the  dizzy,  dreadful  height, 

He  muttered  a  curse  with  his  latest  breath 
On  the  head  of  the  cruel  knight. 

One  year  from  that  day  old  Stibor  held 

His  drunken  wassail  long, 
And  spent  the  hours  till  the  cock  crew  morn 

In  jest  and  wine  and  song. 

Then  he  sought  his  garden  on  the  cliff, 
And  lay  down  under  a  vine 


BETZKO  211 

To  sleep  away  the  lethargy 
Of  a  wassail-bowl  of  wine. 

While  sleeping  soundly  under  the  shade, 

And  dreaming  of  revelries, 
An  adder  crawled  upon  his  breast, 

And  bit  him  in  both  his  eyes. 

Blinded  and  mad  with  pain  he  ran 

Toward  the  precipice, 
Unheeding  till  he  headlong  fell 

Adown  the  dread  abyss. 

Just  where  old  Betzko's  blood  had  dyed 

With  red  the  old  rocks  gray, 
Quivering  and  bleeding  and  dumb  and  dead 

Old  Stibor's  body  lay. 


WESSELENYI 

A    HUNGARIAN    TALE 

When  madly  raged  religious  war 

Through  all  the  Magyar  land, 
And  royal  archer  and  hussar 

Met  foemen  hand  to  hand, 
A  princess  fair  in  castle  strong 

The  royal  troops  defied, 
And  bravely  held  her  fortress  long 

Though  help  was  all  denied. 

Princess  Maria  was  her  name — 

Brave  daughter  nobly  sired ; 
She  took  her  father's  trusty  sword 

When  bleeding  he  expired, 
And  bravely  rallied  warders  all 

To  meet  the  storming  foe, 
And  hurled  them  from  the  rampart- wall 

Upon  the  crags  below. 

Prince  Casimir — her  father — built 

Murana  high  and  wide; 
It  sat  among  the  mountain  cliffs — 

The  Magyars'  boast  and  pride. 
Bold  Wesselenyi — stalwart  knight, 

Young,  famed  and  wondrous  fair, 
With  a  thousand  men  besieged  the  height, 

And  led  the  bravest  there. 
212 


WESSELEN  YI  213 

And  long  he  tried  the  arts  of  war 

To  take  that  castle-hold, 
Till  many  a  proud  and  plumed  hussar 

Was  lying  stiff  and  cold; 
And  still  the  frowning  castle  stood 

A  grim,  unbroken  wall, 
Like  some  lone  rock  in  stormy  seas 

That  braves  the  billows  all. 

Bold  Wesselenyi's  cheeks  grew  thin; 

A  solemn  oath  he  sware 
That  if  he  failed  the  prize  to  win 

His  bones  should  molder  there. 
Two  weary  months  had  worn  away, 

Two  hundred  men  were  slain, 
His  bold  assaults  were  baffled  still, 

And  all  his  arts  were  vain. 

But  love  is  mightier  than  the  sword; 

He  clad  him  in  disguise — 
In  the  dress  of  an  inferior  lord — 

To  win  the  noble  prize. 
He  bade  his  armed  men  to  wait, 

To  cease  the  battle-blare 
And  sought  alone  the  castle-gate 

To  hold  a  parley  there. 

Aloft  a  flag  of  truce  he  bore: 

Her  warders  bade  him  pass; 
Within  he  met  the  princess  fair 

All  clad  in  steel  and  brass. 
Her  bright,  black  eyes  and  queenly  art, 

Proud  lips  and  raven  hair, 
Smote  bold  young  Wesselenyi's  heart 

While  he  held  parley  there. 


214  WESSELEN  YI 

Cunning  he  talked  of  great  reward 

And  royal  favor,  too, 
If  she  would  yield  her  father's  sword; 

She  sternly  answered  "No." 
But  even  while  they  parleyed  there 

Maria's  amorous  eyes 
Looked  tenderly  and  lovingly 

On  the  chieftain  in  disguise. 

"Go  tell  your  gallant  chief,"  she  said, 

"To  keep  his  paltry  pelf; 
The  knight  who  would  my  castle  win, 

Must  dare  to  come  himself." 
And  forth  she  sternly  bade  him  go, 

But  followed  with  her  eyes. 
I  ween  she  knew  the  brave  knight  well 

Through  all  his  fair  disguise. 

But  when  had  dawned  another  morn, 

He  bade  his  bugleman 
To  sound  again  the  parley-horn 

Ere  yet  the  fray  began. 
And  forth  he  sent  a  trusty  knight 

To  seek  the  castle-gate 
And  to  the  princess  privately 

His  message  to  relate — 

That  he  it  was  who  in  disguise 

Her  warders  bade  to  pass, 
And  while  he  parleyed  there  her  eyes 

Had  pierced  his  plates  of  brass. 
His  heart  he  offered  and  his  hand, 

And  pledged  a  signet-ring 
If  she  would  yield  her  brave  command 

Unto  his  gracious  king. 


WESSELEN  YI  215 

"Go  tell  your  chief,"  Maria  cried — 

"Audacious  as  he  is — 
If  he  be  worthy  such  a  bride 

My  castle  and  hand  are  his. 
But  he  should  know  that  lady  fair 

By  faint  heart  ne'er  was  won; 
So  let  your  gallant  chieftain,  sir, 

Come  undisguised  alone. 

"And  he  may  see  in  the  northern  tower, 

Over  yonder  precipice, 
A  lone,  dim  light  at  the  midnight  hour 

Shine  down  the  dark  abyss. 
And  over  the  chasm's  dungeon-gloom 

Shall  a  slender  ladder  hang; 
And  if  alone  he  dare  to  come, — 

Unarmed — without  a  clang, 

"More  of  his  suit  your  chief  shall  hear, 

Perhaps  may  win  the  prize; 
Tell  him  the  way  is  hedged  with  fear, — 

One  mis-step  and  he  dies. 
Nor  will  I  pledge  him  safe  retreat 

From  out  yon  guarded  tower; 
My  watchful  warders  all  to  cheat 

May  be  beyond  my  power." 

At  midnight's  dark  and  silent  hour 

The  tall  and  gallant  knight 
Sought  on  the  cliff  the  northern  tower, 

And  saw  the  promised  light. 
With  toil  he  climbed  the  cragged  cliff, 

And  there  the  ladder  found; 
And  o'er  the  yawning  gulf  he  clomb 

The  ladder  round  by  round. 


216  WESSELEN  VI 


And  as  he  climbed  the  ladder  bent 

Above  the  yawning  deep, 
But  bravely  to  the  port  he  went 

And  entered  at  a  leap. 
Full  twenty  warders  thronged  the  hall, 

Each  with  his  blade  in  hand ; 
They  caught  the  brave  knight  like  a  thrall 

And  bound  him  foot  and  hand. 

They  tied  him  fast  to  an  iron  ring, 

At  Maria's  stern  command, 
And  then  they  jeered — "God  save  the  king 

And  all  his  knightly  band!" 
They  bound  a  bandage  on  his  eyes, 

Then  the  haughty  princess  said: 
"Audacious  knight,  I  hold  a  prize, — 

My  castle  or  your  head ! 

"Now,  mark! — desert  the  king's  command, 

And  join  your  sword  with  mine, 
And  thine  shall  be  my  heart  and  hand, 

This  castle  shall  be  thine. 
I  grant  one  hour  for  thee  to  choose, 

My  bold  and  gallant  lord; 
And  if  my  offer  you  refuse 

You  perish  by  the  sword!" 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  his  face  was  pale 

And  he  prayed  a  silent  prayer; 
But  his  heart  was  oak  and  it  could  not  quail, 

And  a  secret  oath  he  sware. 
And  grim  stood  the  warders  armed  all, 

In  the  torches'  flicker  and  flare, 
As  they  watch  for  an  hour  in  the  gloomy  hall 

The  brave  knight  pinioned  there. 


WESSELEN  YI  217 

The  short — the  flying  hour  is  past, 

The  warders  have  bared  his  breast; 
The  bugler  bugles  a  doleful  blast; 

Will  the  pale  knight  stand  the  test? 
He  has  made  his  choice — he  will  do  his  part, 

He  has  sworn  and  he  cannot  lie, 
And  he  cries  with  the  sword-point  at  his  heart, — 

"Betray? — nay — better  to  die!" 

Suddenly  fell  from  his  blue  eyes 

The  silken,  blinding  bands, 
And  while  he  looked  in  sheer  surprise 

They  freed  his  feet  and  hands. 
"I  give  thee  my  castle,"  Maria  cried, 

"And  I  give  thee  my  heart  and  hand, 
And  Maria  will  be  the  proudest  bride 

In  all  this  Magyar  land. 

"  Grant  heaven  that  thou  be  true  to  me 

As  thou  art  to  the  king, 
And  I'll  bless  the  day  I  gave  to  thee 

My  castle  for  a  ring." 
The  red  blood  flushed  in  the  brave  knight's  face 

As  he  looked  on  the  lady  fair; 
He  sprang  to  her  arms  in  a  fond  embrace, 

And  he  married  her  then  and  there. 

So  the  little  blind  elf  with  his  feathered  shaft 

Did  more  than  the  sword  could  do, 
For  he  captured  and  held  with  his  magical  craft 

Her  heart  and  her  castle,  too. 


DUST  TO  DUST 


Dust  to  dust: 

Fall  and  perish  love  and  lust: 
Life  is  one  brief  Autumn  day; 
Sin  and  sorrow  haunt  the  way 
To  the  narrow  house  of  clay, 
Clutching  at  the  good  and  just: 
Dust  to  dust. 

Dust  to  dust: 

Still  we  strive  and  toil  and  trust, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave : 
Vainly  crying,  "Jesus,  save!" 
Fall  the  coward  and  the  brave, 
Fall  the  felon  and  the  just: 
Dust  to  dust. 

Dust  to  dust: 

Hark,  I  hear  the  wintry  gust; 
Yet  the  roses  bloom  to-day, 
Blushing  to  the  kiss  of  May, 
While  the  north  winds  sigh  and  say : 
1 '  Lo  we  bring  the  cruel  frost — 
Dust  to  dust." 

Dust  to  dust: 

Yet  we  live  and  love  and  trust, 
Lifting  burning  brow  and  eye 
To  the  mountain-peaks  on  high: 
218 


D  UST  TO  D  UST  219 

From  the  peaks  the  ages  cry, 
Strewing  ashes,  rime  and  rust: 
"Dust  to  dust!" 

Dust  to  dust: 

What  is  gained  when  all  is  lost? 
Gaily  for  a  day  we  tread — 
Proudly  with  averted  head 
O'er  the  ashes  of  the  dead — 
Blind  with  pride  and  mad  with  lust : 
Dust  to  dust. 

Hope  and  trust: 

All  life  springs  from  out  the  dust: 
Ah,  we  measure  God  by  man, 
Looking  forward  but  a  span 
On  His  wondrous,  boundless  plan; 
All  His  ways  are  wise  and  just; 
Hope  and  trust. 

Hope  and  trust: 

Hope  still  blossoms  from  the  dust; 
Love  is  queen:   God's  throne  is  hers; 
His  great  heart  with  loving  force 
Throbs  throughout  the  universe; 
We  are  His  and  He  is  just; 
Hope  and  trust. 


LINES 

On  the  death  of  Captain  Hiram  A.  Coates,  my  old  schoolmate  and  friend. 

Dead?   or  is  it  a  dream — 
Only  the  voice  of  a  dream? 
Dead  in  the  prime  of  his  years, 
And  laid  in  the  lap  of  the  dust; 
Only  a  handful  of  ashes 
Moldering  down  into  dust. 

Strong  and  manly  was  he, 
Strong  and  tender  and  true; 
Proud  in  the  prime  of  his  years; 
Strong  in  the  strength  of  the  just: 
A  heart  that  was  half  a  lion's, 
And  half  the  heart  of  a  girl ; 
Tender  to  all  that  was  tender, 
And  true  to  all  that  was  true; 
Bold  in  the  battle  of  life, 
And  bold  on  the  bloody  field ; 
First  at  the  call  of  his  country, 
First  in  the  front  of  the  foe. 

Hope  of  the  years  was  his — 
The  golden  and  garnered  sheaves; 
Fair  on  the  hills  of  Autumn 
Reddened  the  apples  of  peace. 

Dead  ?  or  is  it  a  dream  ? 
Dead  in  the  prime  of  his  years, 
And  laid  in  the  lap  of  the  dust. 
220 


LINES   ON,   THE   DEATH    OF   CAPTAIN   COATES          221 

Aye,  it  is  but  a  dream ; 
For  the  life  of  man  is  a  dream : 
Dead  in  the  prime  of  his  years 
And  laid  in  the  lap  of  the  dust — 
Only  a  handful  of  ashes 
Moldering  down  into  dust. 

Only  a  handful  of  ashes 

Moldering  down  into  dust  ? 

Aye,  but  what  of  the  breath 

Blown  out  of  the  bosom  of  God  ? 

What  of  the  spirit  that  breathed 

And  burned  in  the  temple  of  clay  ? 

Dust  unto  dust  returns; 

The  dew-drop  returns  to  the  sea; 

The  flash  from  the  flint  and  the  steel 

Returns  to  its  source  in  the  sun. 

Change  cometh  forever-and-aye, 

But  forever  nothing  is  lost — 

The  dew-drop  that  sinks  in  the  sand, 

Nor  the  sunbeam  that  falls  in  the  sea. 

Ah,  life  is  only  a  link 

In  the  endless  chain  of  change. 

Death  giveth  the  dust  to  the  dust 

And  the  soul  to  the  infinite  soul. 

For  aye  since  the  morning  of  man — 

Since  the  human  rose  up  from  the  brute — 

Hath  Hope,  like  a  beacon  of  light, 

Like  a  star  in  the  rift  of  the  storm, 

Been  writ  by  the  finger  of  God 

On  the  longing  hearts  of  men. 

Ah,  follow  no  goblin  fear; 

Aye,  cringe  to  no  cruel  creed; 

Nor  chase  the  shadow  of  doubt 

Till  the  brain  runs  mad  with  despair. 


222  FIDO 


Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  O  man, 
To  the  winds  and  the  quaking  earth- 
To  the  heaving  and  falling  seas — 
To  the  ultimate  stars — and  feel 
The  throb  of  the  spirit  of  God — 
The  pulse  of  the  Universe. 


FIDO 

Hark,  the  storm  is  raging  high; 

Beat  the  breakers  on  the  coast, 
And  the  wintry  waters  cry 

Like  the  wailing  of  a  ghost. 

On  the  rugged  coast  of  Maine 
Stands  the  frugal  farmer's  cot: 

What  if  drive  the  sleet  and  rain  ? 
John  and  Hannah  heed  it  not. 

On  the  hills  the  mad  winds  roar, 
And  the  tall  pines  toss  and  groan; 

Round  the  headland — down  the  shore- 
Stormy  spirits  shriek  and  moan. 

Inky  darkness  wraps  the  sky; 

Not  a  glimpse  of  moon  or  star; 
And  the  stormy-petrels  cry 

Out  along  the  harbor-bar. 

Seated  by  their  blazing  hearth — 
John  and  Hannah — snug  and  warm- 

What  if  darkness  wrap  the  earth? 
Drive  the  sleet  and  howl  the  storm ! 


FIDO  223 

Let  the  stormy-petrels  fly! 

Let  the  moaning  breakers  beat ! 
"Hark!   I  hear  an  infant  cry 

And  the  patter  of  baby-feet:" 

And  Hannah  listened  as  she  spoke, 

But  only  heard  the  driving  rain, 
As  on  the  cottage-roof  it  broke 

And  pattered  on  the  window-pane. 

And  she  sat  knitting  by  the  fire 

While  pussy  frolicked  at  her  feet; 
And  ever  roared  the  tempest  higher, 

And  ever  harder  the  hailstones  beat. 

"Hark!   the  cry — it  comes  again!" 

"Nay,  it  is  the  winds  that  wail, 
And  the  patter  on  the  pane 

Of  the  driving  sleet  and  hail" 

Replied  the  farmer  as  he  piled 

The  crackling  hemlock  on  the  coals, 
And  lit  his  corn-cob  pipe  and  smiled 

The  smile  of  sweet,  contented  souls. 

Aye,  let  the  storm  rave  o'er  the  earth; 

Their  kine  are  snug  in  barn  and  byre ; 
The  apples  sputter  on  the  hearth, 

The  cider  simmers  on  the  fire. 

But  once  again  at  midnight  high, 

She  heard  in  dreams,  through  wind  and  sleet, 
An  infant  moan,  an  infant  cry, 

And  the  patter  of  baby-feet. 


224  HELOISE 


Half-waking  from  her  dreams  she  turned 
And  heard  the  driving  wind  and  rain; 

Still  on  the  hearth  the  fagots  burned, 
And  hail  beat  on  the  window-pane. 

John  rose  as  wont  at  dawn  of  day ; 

The  earth  was  white  with  frozen  sleet; 
And  lo  his  faithful  Fido  lay 

Dead  on  the  door-stone  at  his  feet. 


HELOISE 


I  saw  a  light  on  yester-night — 

A  low  light  on  the  misty  lea; 
The  stars  were  dim  and  silence  grim 

Sat  brooding  on  the  sullen  sea. 

From  out  the  silence  came  a  voice — 

A  voice  that  thrilled  me  through  and  through, 

And  said,  "Alas,  is  this  your  choice? 
For  she  is  false  and  I  was  true." 

And  in  my  ears  the  passing  years 

Will  sadly  whisper  words  of  rue: 
Forget — and  yet — can  I  forget 

That  one  was  false  and  one  was  true? 


CHARITY 


Frail  are  the  best  of  us,  brothers — 

God's  charity  cover  us  all — 
Yet  we  ask  for  perfection  in  others, 

And  scoff  when  they  stumble  and  fall. 
Shall  we  give  him  a  fish — or  a  serpent — 

Who  stretches  his  hand  in  his  need? 
Let  the  proud  give  a  stone,  but  the  manly 

Will  give  him  a  hand — full  of  bread. 

Let  us  search  our  own  hearts  and  behavior 

Ere  we  cast  at  a  brother  a  stone, 
And  remember  the  words  of  the  Savior 

To  the  frail  and  unfortunate  one. 
Remember  when  others  displease  us 

The  Nazarene's  holy  command, 
For  the  only  word  written  by  Jesus 

Was  charity — writ  in  the  sand. 


CHARITY 

[Written  in  a  friend's  book  of  autographs,  1876.] 

Bear  and  forbear,  I  counsel  thee, 

Forgive  and  be  forgiven, 
For  Charity  is  the  golden  key 

That  opens  the  gate  of  heaven. 
225 


BYRON  AND  THE  ANGEL 


Poet: 

"Why  this  fever — why  this  sighing? — 

Why  this  restless  longing — dying 

For — a  something — dreamy  something, 

Undefined,  and  yet  defying 

All  the  pride  and  power  of  manhood  ? 

"O  these  years  of  sin  and  sorrow ! 
Smiling  while  the  iron  harrow 
Of  a  keen  and  biting  longing 
Tears  and  quivers  in  the  marrow 
Of  my  being  every  moment — 
Of  my  very  inmost  being. 

"What  to  me  the  mad  ambition 

For  men's  praise  and  proud  position — 

Struggling,  fighting  to  the  summit 

Of  its  vain  and  earthly  mission, 

To  lie  down  on  bed  of  ashes — 

Bed  of  barren,  bitter  ashes? 

"Cure  this  fever?     I  have  tried  it; 
Smothered,  drenched  it  and  defied  it 
With  a  will  of  brass  and  iron; 
Every  smile  and  look  denied  it; 
226 


'BYRON   AND    THE   ANGEL  227 

Yet  it  heeded  not  denying, 
And  it  mocks  at  my  defying 
While  my  very  soul  is  dying. 

41  Is  there  no  balm  in  Gilead ? "— tell  me? 
Nay — no  balm  to  soothe  and  qu   1  me  ? 
Must  I  tremble  in  this  fever?4 
Death,  O  lift  thy  hand  and  fell  me; 
Let  me  sink  to  rest  forever 
Where  this  burning  cometh  never. 

41  Sometimes  when  this  restless  madness 
Softens  down  to  mellow  sadness, 
I  look  back  on  sun-lit  valleys 
Where  my  boyish  heart  of  gladness 
Nestled  without  pain  or  longing — 
Nestled  softly  in  a  vision 
Full  of  love  and  hope's  fruition, 
Lulled  by  morning  songs  of  spring-time. 

"Then  I  ponder,  and  I  wonder 

Was  some  heart-chord  snapped  asunder 

When  the  threads  were  soft  and  silken? 

Did  some  fatal  boyish  blunder 

Plant  a  canker  in  my  bosom 

That  hath  ever  burned  and  rankled? 

"O  this  thirsting,  thirsting  hanker! 

O  this  burning,  burning  canker! 

Driving  Peace  and  Hope  to  shipwreck—- 

Without  rudder,  without  anchor, 

On  the  reef-rocks  of  Damnation!"  *  '', 

Invisible  Angel: 

"Jesus — Son  of  Virgin  Mary; 
Lift  the  burden  from  the  weary : 


223  CHRISTMAS   EVE 

Pity,  Jesus,  and  anoint  him 
With  the  holy  balm  of  Gilead." 

Poet: 

"  Yea,  Christ  Jesus,  pour  thy  blessings 
On  these  terrible  heart-pressings: 
O  I  bless  thee,  unseen  Angel; 
Lead  me — teach  me,  Holy  Spirit." 

Angel: 

"There  is  balm  in  Gilead! 

There  is  balm  in  Gilead! 
Peace  awaits  thee  with  caressings — 
Sitting  at  the  feet  of  Jesus — 
At  the  right-hand  of  Jehovah — 
At  the  blessed  feet  of  Jesus;— Alleluia!" 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

I 

From  church  and  chapel  and  dome  and  tower, 

Near — far — and  everywhere, 
The  merry  bells  chime  loud  and  clear 

Upon  the  frosty  air. 

All  down  the  marble  avenue 

The  lamp-lit  casements  glow 
And  from  an  hundred  palaces 

Glad  carols  float  and  flow. 

A  thousand  lamps  from  street  to  street 

Blaze  on  the  dusky  air, 
And  light  the  way  for  happy  feet 

To  carol,  praise  and  prayer. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE  229 

'Tis  Christmas  eve.     In  church  and  hall 

The  laden  fir-trees  bend; 
Glad  children  throng  the  festival 

And  grandsires,  too,  attend. 

Fur-wrapped  and  gemmed  with  pearls  and  gold, 

Proud  ladies  rich  and  fair 
As  Egypt's  splendid  queen  of  old 

In  all  her  pomp  are  there. 

And  many  a  costly,  golden  gift 

Hangs  on  each  Christmas-tree, 
While  round  and  round  the  carols  drift 

In  waves  of  melody. 


II 


In  a  dim  and  dingy  attic, 

Away  from  the  pomp  and  glare, 

A  widow  sits  by  a  nickering  lamp, 
Bowed  down  by  toil  and  care. 

On  her  toil-worn  hand  her  weary  head, 

At  her  feet  a  shoe  half-bound, 
On  the  bare,  brown  table  a  loaf  of  bread, 

And  hunger  and  want  around. 

By  her  side  at  the  broken  window, 

With  her  rosy  feet  all  bare, 
Her  little  one  carols  a  Christmas  tune 

To  the  chimes  on  the  frosty  air. 

And  the  mother  dreams  of  the  by-gone  years 
And  their  merry  Christmas-bells, 

Till  her  cheeks  are  wet  with  womanly  tears, 
And  a  sob  in  her  bosom  swells. 


230  BUTTERCUP 

The  child  looked  up;   her  innocent  ears 
Had  caught  the  smothered  cry; 

She  saw  the  pale  face  wet  with  tears 
She  fain  would  pacify. 

"Don't  cry,  mamma,"  she  softly  said — 
"Here's  a  Christmas  gift  for  you," 

And  on  the  mother's  cheek  a  kiss 
She  printed  warm  and  true. 

"God  bless  my  child!"  the  mother  cried 
And  caught  her  to  her  breast — 

"O  Lord,  whose  Son  was  crucified, 
Thy  precious  gift  is  best. 

"If  toil  and  trouble  be  my  lot 
While  on  life's  sea  I  drift, 

O  Lord,  my  soul  shall  murmur  not, 
If  Thou  wilt  spare  Thy  gift." 


BUTTERCUP 

Sweet  little  Buttercup, 

Sunny-haired  Buttercup, 
Dear  little  Buttercup, 

Hold  up  your  chin. 
Here  is  a  "dew-drop," 

My  dear  little  Buttercup, 
Open  your  mousie, 

And  I'll  drop  it  in. 


UNIVERSITY 

£/u 


COLUMBUS  231 


Buttercup,  Buttercup, 

Hold  your  dear  mousie  up, 
Buttercup,  Buttercup, 

Hold  up  your  chin. 
Here  is  a  honey-drop, 

Dear  little  sunny-top; 
Hold  up  your  mousie, 

And  I'll  drop  it  in. 


COLUMBUS 

Written  at  the  request  of  the  Society,  and  read  at  the  public  meeting  of  the  Minnesota  Historical 
Society,  at  St.  Paul,  October  21.  1892. 

Behold  the  magic  of  four  hundred  years ! 

Earth  wheeled  her  myriad  circuits  round  her  sun 

While  nature  labored  to  evolve  a  man. 

Earth  wheeled  her  million  circuits  round  her  sun 

While  man  from  bestial  dens  and  savagedom 

Slowly  uprose  and,  groping  into  light, 

Stood  face  to  face  with  fate  :  uprose —  and  fell. 

Clanking  the  chains  of  ignorance  and  fear 

The  shuffling  feet  of  generations  passed 

Ere  man  again  from  out  the  gloom  arose. 

Deep  reader  of  the  Sagas  of  the  past, 
And  wise  beyond  the  wisdom  of  his  time, 
Through  myth  and  mystery  Columbus  saw 
Glimmering  the  islands  of  a  world  unknown: 
For  when  the  time  is  ripe  God  sends  the  man. 
Lo  at  his  touch  the  doors  of  mystery 
Flew  open,  and  the  sea  gave  up  its  dead. 
Behold  Atlantis  risen  from  the  sea — 
The  fabled,  long-lost  Island  of  the  Gods! 
All  nature  lay  a  miracle ;  the  isles 


232  COLUMBUS 

Lifted  their  fronded  cocoas  to  the  sun: 

Lay  in  primeval  wilderness  a  world. 

Men  clad  in  nature's  nakedness  in  awe 

Peered  from  the  palms  upon  the  white-winged  ships, 

And  saw  the  promised  coming  of  the  gods. 

The  breath  of  God  blew  in  Columbus'  sails: 

Behold  the  magic  of  four  hundred  years, — 

The  shackles  broken  from  the  limbs  of  men : 

The  shackles  broken  from  the  minds  of  men: 

A  mightier  race  than  Rome  or  Hellas  knew 

Uprisen  in  the  west;   the  miracles 

Of  science  and  the  wonder-works  of  art ! 

All  nature  bending  to  the  will  of  man; 

The  winds,  the  tides,  the  thunder-bolts  of  heaven, 

Turning  his  mills  and  harnessed  to  his  cars! 

Would  that  thou  could'st  from  out  thy  tomb  arise, 
Columbus,  on  yon  queen  of  Indian  Isles, 
And  see  the  New- World  miracles,  and  hear, 
From  isle  to  isle  and  swarming  land  to  land, 
The  great  heart  of  the  world  throb  to  thy  name ! 


MOTHER  ENGLAND 

Mother  England ! — Mother  England ! — we  are  sons  of  Saxon  sires, 
And  across  the  rolling  oceans  we  behold  your  beacon-fires. 
Your  Scott,  your  Burns,  your  Shakespeare  and  your  Tennyson  are  ours, 
And  our  Yankee  hearts  are  with  you  when  the  cloud  of  danger  lowers. 

Mother  England! — Mother  England! — still  your  sons,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Bear  the  equal  scales  of  Justice  and  the  lamp  of  Liberty: 
Only  ties  of  love  can  bind  them — strong  as  steel  but  soft  as  silk, 
For  they  sucked  the  milk  of  Freedom  in  their  English  mother-milk. 

Mother  England! — Mother  England! — all  your  hero-sons  are  ours, 
And  from  Grant  to  gallant  Dewey  all  our  hero-sons  are  yours; 
For  they  heard  the  trump  of  Arthur  shrilling  down  the  age  anew, 
And  the  iron  call  of  "  Duty  "  where  the  flag  of  Nelson  flew. 

Mother  England! — Mother  England! — through  the  ages  blood  will  tell, 
From  the  spears  that  baffled  Caesar  to  the  field  where  Symons  fell; 
And  from  rugged  Gael  and  Saxon,  brawny  Norsk  and  stalwart  Danes, 
Still  the  blood  of  Bruce  and  Cromwell  tingles  in  our  Yankee  veins. 

Mother  England! — Mother  England! — let  the  shaggy  northern  Bear 
Show  his  teeth  and  growl  his  menace  from  his  sullen,  savage  lair; 
Let  the  mad  Gaul  froth  and  bluster :  man  the  ships  and  train  the  bands ! 
For  our  Yankee  hearts  are  with  you  and,  in  need,  our  Yankee  hands. 

Mother  England! — Mother  England! — if  all  Europe  rise  and  roar, 
We  can  meet  them,  we  can^beat  them,  on  the  sea  and  on  the  shore; 
And  our  sturdy  Anglo-Saxons,  side  by  side  on  land  and  sea, 

233 


234  MOTHER  ENGLAND 

Bearing  ever  the  scales  of  Justice  and  the  lamp  of  Liberty, 
Will  march  on  and  sail  together  to  one  world-wide  destiny. 

Mother  England ! — Mother  England ! — here  is  heart  and  hand  with  you, 

For  Albin's  blood  is  in  our  veins  and  we  are  Saxons,  too. 

One  history,  one  destiny,  one  God,  one  tongue,  one  aim — 

To  bear  the  torch  of  Freedom  through  the  heathen  world  aflame. 

Dec.  5th,  1899— during  the  war  in  South  Africa. 


ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO 


Written  at  the  request  of  the  Allegany  County   Historical  Society  for  the  Centennial  Celebra 
tion  of  the  Settlement  of  Allegany  County,  New  York,  at  Wellsville,  June  26th  and  27th,  1895. 

Ho! — From  the  land  of  palms  and  orange-bloom, 
I  greet  you,  rugged  Allegany  Hills. 
Among  your  murmuring  pines  my  life  began, 
And  there  my  childhood  found  an  humble  home. 

Ho! — From  the  land  of  snow-capped  mountain-peaks, 

And  valleys  green  with  fig  and  olive  tree, 

Where  the  great  ocean  roars  and  beats  and  breaks, 

I  greet  you,  gently-gliding  Genesee — 

I  greet  you,  gently-gliding  Genesee. 

One  hundred  years, — and  what  are  they  to  thee  ? 

Men  come  and  go  like  bubbles  on  the  sea; 

Men  come  and  go, — but  what  are  they  to  thee? 

One  hundred  years, — one  hundred  years  ago — 
Your  rugged  hills  were  clad  with  fir  and  pine : 
Where  graze  the  bleating  lambs  and  lowing  kine 
The  savage  stalked  the  deer  with  bended  bow. 
The  wolf's  long  howl,  the  panther's  piercing  scream, 
Alone  the  silence  of  the  forest  broke. 
Where  now  the  spires  of  town  and  village  gleam, 
Up  from  the  Indian  wigwam  curled  the  smoke; 
Where  puffing  steeds  of  steel  by  hill  and  dale 
Fly  harnessed  to  their  trains  of  palace  cars, 
Crouching  for  game,  or  in  his  tribal  wars, 
The  stealthy  savage  trode  the  forest  trail. 

235  .1 


230  ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO 

One  hundred  years!     Behold,  the  Saxon  hand 
Hath  swept  the  forests  from  your  rolling  hills; 
Your  babbling  brooks  have  shrunk  to  murmuring  rills. 
For  ruthless  axemen  have  laid  bare  the  land. 
The  frontier  then  was  at  Niagara's  brink, 
And  all  beyond  was  unpathed  wilderness, 
Save  where  the  Canadian  in  his  Indian  dress 
Pushed  out  to  trade  for  beaver  and  for  mink. 
Hardy  the  hands  and  stout  the  hearts  of  men 
Who  clove  a  pathway  through  your  forests  then: 
Stout  hearts  and  brawny  arms  of  pioneers 
That  hewed  their  cabins  from  the  wilderness, 
Nor  murmured  at  hard  toil,  nor  sore  distress, 
While  planting  well  the  seeds  of  future  years. 

From  pomp  and  palace  sweet  contentment  flies, 
And  seeks  admission  at  the  cabin  door. 
Happy  the  pioneers — albeit  poor: 
They  studied  the  ways  of  nature  and  were  wise. 
He  is  the  least  in  want  who  wants  the  least: 
The  somber  woods  were  stocked  with  noble  game: 
'So  wild  the  browsing  deer  that  they  were  tame,' 
And  woods  and  waters  furnished  forth  a  feast. 
Where  now  on  gentle  slope  and  grassy  mead 
The  whinneying  colts  and  sleek,  fat  cattle  feed, 
Where  throng  the  busy,  babbling  multitude, 
The  hardy  settler's  rude  log-cabin  stood. 
Little  knew  he  of  pomp  and  luxury: 
His  stumpy  clearing,  tilled  with  toil  and  care, 
Furnished  his  bare-foot  cubs  with  wholesome  fare. 
The  frugal  house-wife,  busy  as  a  bee, 
Spun  flax  and  wrool,  and  wove  the  homespun  good 
That  clothed  her  sturdy  lord  and  numerous  brood. 
Happy  the  monarch  of  that  stumpy  field ! 
Happy  the  housewife  at  her  spinning  wheel! 


ONE  H  UNDRED  YEARS  AGO  237 

Time  hath  no  happier  lot  to  man  revealed ; 
The  mystic  Fates  no  happier  lot  conceal. 
Ah,  sweet  content — the  blessing  of  the  blest — 
Upon  thy  cheerful  table — east  or  west — - 
Corn-cakes  and  baked  potatoes  make  a  feast. 

Stout  hearts  were  theirs  and  brown  and  brawny  arms 
That  from  the  wilderness  hewed  fields  and  farms. 
The  patriot  sons  of  these  brave  pioneers 
Marched  at  their  country's  call  in  after  years, 
And,  mid  the  thunderstorm  of  shot  and  shell, 
In  the  fore-front  of  freedom's  battle  fell. 

Ye  sons  and  grandsons  of  the  pioneers, 
Say — is  your  lot  a  happier  lot  than  theirs  ? 
We  chase  the  jack  o'lantern  of  wealth  or  fame; 
We  patch  the  cloak  of  truth  with  many  a  lie ; 
We  hunt  our  fellow  men,  alas,  as  game ; 
We  toil  and  moil  and  delve  and  drudge  and  die. 
We  mount  the  steed  of  steel  and  ride  amain; 
We  grasp  the  fiery  thunderbolt — for  gain; 
We  scan  the  ocean  depths — we  signal  Mars, 
And  read  the  reeling  universe  of  stars. 
Alas,  the  more  we  learn  the  less  we  know: 
Contentment  is  the  wisdom  of  the  wise: 
Tested  by  this  our  knowledge  is  but  woe, 
And  pride  and  pomp  and  wealth  but  gilded  lies. 

Ah,  in  the  toil  and  moil  of  modern  days 

Is  there  no  higher  aim  than  cent  per  cent? 

Are  all  our  nobler  aspirations  spent? 

Even  in  God's  holy  house  of  prayer  and  praise 

We  ask  ourselves,  in  secret,  if  it  pays. 

We  pluck  our  wealthy  brother  by  the  coat ; 

We  clutch  our  needy  brother  by  the  throat 


238  ONE  H  UNDRED  YEARS  AGO 

And  can  it  be  in  mother  Nature's  plan, 
As  we  rise  up  above  the  beasts  of  prey 
Into  the  Christian  sunlight  of  today, 
Alas,  that  man's  worst  enemy  is  man  ? 

And  shall  we  praise  the  laws  and  call  them  good, 
That  enrich  the  few  and  beggar  the  multitude? 
Ah,  long  and  strong  is  the  robber  arm  of  greed, 
But  longer — stronger — is  the  arm  of  need. 
Where  the  mad  mob  rules  Liberty  runs  mad, 
And  Justice  dies.     Heaven  help  the  hapless  land 
Where  the  Red  Monster  lifts  his  bloody  hand 
And  Hydra  heads,  defying  man  and  God. 
O  was  the  blood  of  patriot  fathers  shed 
To  found  an  empire  governed  by  the  mob — 
Where  Freedom  falls  and  Anarchy  instead 
Teaches  her  hungry  wolves  to  rape  and  rob  ? 
Say — was  the  blood  of  patriot  brothers  slain 
Under  our  starry  flag  in  Freedom's  cause 
To  save  our  country  and  defend  her  laws, 
Shed  on  an  hundred  battlefields  in  vain? 
No!     For  God  rules  the  destinies  of  men, 
Even  as  he  ruled  the  fate  of  battle  then, 
And  out  of  toil  and  sweat  since  time  began, 
Aye,  out  of  darkness,  storm  and  stress  and  mire- 
Yea,  out  of  brutal  rapine,  blood  and  fire — 
Higher  and  holier  hath  God  lifted  man. 

Ye  sons  and  grandsons  of  the  pioneers, 
Your  lot  is  still  a  higher  lot  than  theirs. 
The  teeth  of  time  have  harrowed  up  the  soil; 
Earth  yields  her  goodlier  fruits  to  lesser  toil. 
Where  lumbering  wain  and  wagon  toiled  amain 
(Even  when  yon  listening  bald-head  was  a  boy) 
Through  marsh  and  mire  and  rut  and  rugged  way— 


ONE  H  UNDRED  YEARS  AGO  239 

Over  the  stumps  and  stones  and  corduroy — 
Behold,  by  sunny  slope  and  grassy  plain, 
Hauling  his  precious  freight  in  gilded  train, 
The  iron  horse  flies  like  the  wind  today. 
Science  hath  bridled  nature's  wildest  steeds, 
And  bid  them  labor  for  our  daily  needs. 
The  very  thunderbolts  are  harnessed  now 
To  humming  mills  and  swiftly-flying  cars; 
And  we  may  sit  and  thank  our  happy  stars, 
While  fire  and  water  drudge  and  delve  and  plow. 
Ye  sons  and  grandsons  of  the  pioneers, 
Your  lot  is  still  a  higher  lot  than  theirs. 


MY  "BABY"  DOG 


was  "Baby."— H.  L.  G.) 

You  sleep  beneath  the  Sahra  palm, 
My  little  Pet— my  "Baby"  Dog; 
You  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  and  calm: 
O  could  you  hear  this  little  psalm! 
My  little  black-eyed  "Baby"  Dog. 

When  you  were  but  a  babe  I  fed 

With  creamy  milk,  my  "Baby"  Dog: 
At  night  you  lay  beside  my  head— 
Upon  the  pillow  on  my  bed— 
My  little  baby— "Baby"  Dog. 

And  as  you  grew  I  found  you  true, 

My  little  bright-eyed  "Baby"  Dog, 
And  nearer  to  my  heart  you  drew: 
A  truer  friend  I  never  knew 

Than  my  own  little  "Baby"  Dog. 

How  oft  you  sat  upon  the  seat — 

When  I  went  driving,  "Baby"  Dog— 
Beside  me  proud  and  prim  and  neat, 
Or  ran  behind  old  "Dandy's"  feet, 
Beneath  the  buggy,  "Baby"  Dog. 
240 


MY   "BABY"    DOG  241 

*• 

When  I  said  "  Ranch,"  you  pricked  your  ears 

And  begged  to  go,  my  "Baby"  Dog: 
And  oft  you  went  those  happy  years: 
Could  "Pops"  say  "No,"  when  human  tears 

Pled  in  your  eyes,  O  "Baby"  Dog? 

You  caught  the  rabbit  when  I  fired, 

Or  brought  the  quail,  my  "Baby"  Dog: 

You  chased  the  snipe  till  you  were  mired, 

And  ran  the  "jack"  till  you  were  tired 
And  panting,  O  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

I  shot  a  quail  in  a  willow  tree — 

One  night — I  mind  it,  "Baby"  Dog; 
'Twas  after  dark — I  could  not  see; 
You  proudly  brought  the  quail  to  me : 

I  broiled  that  quail  for  you — for  you. 
And  it  had  butter  on  it,  too, 

And  creamy  toast,  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

You  loved  spring-chicken  and  "jelly  beans"; 

You  got  a-plenty,  "Baby"  Dog; 
You  loved  the  "Ranch"  and  rural  scenes; 
You  loved  to  romp  in  our  demesnes 

Along  with  "Pops,"  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

You  loved  to  lay  your  little  head 

Upon  my  knee,  O  "Baby"  Dog: 
With  pleading  eyes  how  oft  you  said: 
"O  'Pops,'  please  pat  your  baby's  head," 

My  little  darling  "Baby"  Dog! 

And  when  I  stroked  your  silken  dead 

You  kissed  my  hand,  O  "Baby"  Dog: 
Your  big  black  eyes  they  spoke  and  said — 


242  MY   "BABY"    DOG 

"I  love  you,  ' Pops' "  —but  you  are  dead! 
A  year  has  fled  since  you  lay  dead : 
I  miss  you,  O  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

How  oft  at  night  when  it  was  cold — 

Down  at  the  "Ranch,"  my  "Baby"  Dog, 

You  snuggled  down  beneath  the  fold 

Of  my  bed-blankets — Could  I  scold 

My  little  pet,  as  good  as  gold? 

You  snored  beside  me,  "Baby"  Dog; 

And  often  dreamed:   the  meadow-lark 
Or  quail  flew  up,  my  "Baby"  Dog: 

The  teal  went  whizzing  in  the  dark; 

The  "jack"  sprang  from  the  ditch  and — hark! 

I  hear  your  dreamy  whine  and  bark, 

There  in  your  dreams,  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

And  so  the  years  ran  on  and  on — 

And  we  were  happy,  "Baby"  Dog — 
Till  thirteen  summers  they  were  gone, 
And  you  were  growing  old  and  wan: 
I  loved  you  still,  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

You  watched  for  me  when  I  was  gone — 

Out  on  the  walk,  my  "Baby"  Dog; 
And,  watching  for  me  there  alone, 
You  often  made  your  little  moan, 
Until  I  came,  my  "Baby"  Dog. 

One  night — a  cold  and  cruel  night — 
A  norther  blew,  O  "Baby"  Dog: 

On  walk  and  lawn  the  frost  fell  white; 

You  watched  for  me  all  night — all  night — 
Out  on  the  walk — my  "Baby"  Dog. 


MY   "BABY"   DOG  243 

x 

I  came  at  morning,  and  you  lay 

There  dying,  O  my  "Baby"  Dog! 
I  was  away — I  was  away — 
I  could  not  know — and  they — and  they 

Forgot  my  dear  old  "Baby"  Dog. 

I  took  you  in  my  arms  and  cried — 

I  cried,  my  darling  "Baby"  Dog; 
I  laid  your  head  my  face  beside; 
You  kissed  my  cheek  and  moaned  and  died— 

And  moaned  and  died,  O  "Baby"  Dog! 

Your  "photos"  framed  in  burnished  gold 

Hang  in  my  chamber,  "Baby"  Dog — 
One  young  and  trim — one  fat  and  old — 
With  eyes  that  speak — (as  I  behold) — 

"O  'Pops,'  come  pet  your  'Baby'  Dog! 

You  sleep  beneath  the  Sahra  palm, 

Where  I  will  sleep,  my  "Baby"  Dog; 
You  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  and  calm; 
O  could  you  hear  this  little  psalm! 

My  little  darling  "Baby"  Dog. 

And  if  there  be  a  Heaven  above, 

I'll  find  you  there,  my  "Baby"  Dog: 
We'll  hunt  the  rabbit  and  the  dove 
In  grassy  mead  and  willow  grove, 
As  we  were  wont,  my  pet — my  love; 
And  there  together  we  will  rove 

Forever,  O  my  "Baby"  Dog. 


UNDER  THE  SOMBER  PINE 


The  twilight  darkened  over  hill  and  meadow, 
The  wind  moaned  softly  in  the  somber  pine, 

And  brooding  silence  spread  her  solemn  shadow 
Upon  your  heart  and  mine. 

Brave  youth  was  ours  and  all  the  world  before  us; 

The  stars  of  hope  beamed  radiant  and  benign, 
And  yet  there  stole  foreboding  shadows  o'er  us — • 

Under  the  somber  pine. 

Ah,  time  the  fire-light  from  my  heart  hath  banished; 

Still  in  my  dreams  I  see  thy  face  divine, 
And  ghostly  shadows  of  the  years  evanished — 

Under  the  somber  pine. 
1909. 


MY  DEAD 


Last  night  in  my  feverish  dreams  I  heard 
A  voice  like  the  moan  of  an  autumn  sea, 
Or  the  low,  sad  wail  of  a  widowed  bird, 
And  it  said — "My  darling,  come  home  to  me." 

Then  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  throbbing  head — 
As  cold  as  clay,  but  it  soothed  my  pain: 
I  wakened  and  knew  from  among  the  dead 
My  darling  stood  by  my  couch  again. 
1877. 

244 


HOPE 

•  [Prom  the  German  of  Schiller.] 

Men  talk  and  dream  of  better  days — 

Of  a  golden  time  to  come; 
Toward  a  happy  and  shining  goal 

They  run  with  a  ceaseless  hum. 
The  world  grows  old  and  grows  young  again, 
Still  hope  of  the  better  is  bright  to  men. 

Hope  leads  us  in  at  the  gate  of  life; 

She  crowns  the  boyish  head; 
Her  bright  lamp  lures  the  stalwart  youth, 

Nor  burns  out  with  the  gray-haired  dead; 
For  the  grave  closes  over  his  trouble  and  care, 
But  see — on  the  grave — Hope  is  planted  there! 

'Tis  not  an  empty  and  flattering  deceit, 

Begot  in  a  foolish  brain; 
For  the  heart  speaks  loud  with  its  ceaseless  throbs^ 

"We  are  not  born  in  vain"; 
And  the  words  that  out  of  the  heart-throbs  roll, 
They  cannot  deceive  the  hoping  soul. 


245 


MY  FATHER-LAND 

[From  the  German  of  Theodor  Korner.] 

Where  is  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 

Where  the  sparks  of  noble  spirits  flew, 
Where  flowery  wreaths  for  beauty  grew, 
Where  strong  hearts  glowed  so  glad  and  true 
For  all  things  sacred,  good  and  grand : 

There  was  my  Father-land. 

How  named  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 

O'er  slaughtered  sons — 'neath  tyrant  yokes, 
Ihe  weepeth  now — and  foreign  strokes; 
They  called  her  once  the  Land  of  Oaks — 
Land  of  the  Free — the  German  Land: 

Thus  was  called  my  Father-land. 

Why  weeps  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 

Because  wrhile  tyrant's  tempests  hail 

The  people's  chosen  princes  quail, 

And  all  their  sacred  pledges  fail; 

Because  she  can  no  ear  command, 
Alas,  must  weep  my  Father-land. 

Whom  calls  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 

She  calls  on  Heaven  with  wild  alarm — • 

With  desperation's  thunder-storm — 

On  Liberty  to  bare  her  arm, 

On  Retribution's  vengeful  hand: 
On  these  she  calls — my  Father-land. 
246 


MY    FATHERLAND  247 

What  would  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 

She  would  strike  the  base  slaves  to  the  ground, 

Chase  from  her  soil  the  tyrant  hound, 

And  free  her  sons  in  shackles  bound, 

Or  lay  them  free  beneath  her  sand: 
That  would  my  Father-land. 

And  hopes  the  minstrel's  Father-land? 
She  hopes  for  holy  Freedom's  sake, 
Hopes  that  her  true  sons  will  awake, 
Hopes  that  just  God  will  vengeance  take, 
And  ne'er  mistakes  the  Avenger's  hand: 

Thereon  relies  my  Father-land. 


MY  HEART'S  ON  THE  RHINE 

[From  the  German  of  Wolfgang  MUller.J 

My  heart's  on  the  Rhine — in  the  old  Father-land, 
Where  my  cradle  was  rocked  by  a  dear  mother's  hand; 
My  youth  and  my  friends — they  are  there  yet,  I  know, 
And  my  love  dreams  of  me  with  her  cheeks  all  aglow: 

0  there  where  I  reveled  in  song  and  in  wine ! 
Wherever  I  wander  my  heart's  on  the  Rhine. 

1  hail  thee,  thou  broad-breasted,  golden-green  stream; 
Ye  cities  and  churches  and  castles  that  gleam; 

Ye  grain-fields  of  gold  in  the  valley  so  blue; 
Ye  vineyards  that  glow  in  the  sun-shimmered  dew; 
Ye  forests  and  caverns  and  cliffs  that  were  mine! 
Wherever  I  wander  my  heart's  on  the  Rhine. 

I  hail  thee,  O  life  of  the  soul-stirring  song, 
Of  waltz  and  of  wine,  with  a  yearning  so  strong! 
Hail,  ye  stout  race  of  heroes,  so  brave  and  so  true ! 
Ye  blue-eyed,  gay  maidens,  a  greeting  to  you! 
Your  life  and  your  aims  and  your  efforts  be  mine: 
Wherever  I  wander  my  heart's  on  the  Rhine. 

My  heart's  on  the  Rhine — in  the  old  Father-land, 
Where  my  cradle  was  rocked  by  a  dear  mother's  hand; 
My  youth  and  my  friends — they  are  there  yet.  I  know, 
And  my  love  dreams  of  me  with  her  cheeks  all  aglow: 
Ah — ever  the  same  to  me,  Land  of  the  Vine! 
Wherever  I  wander  my  heart's  on  the  Rhine. 
248 


THE  MINSTREL 

[From  the  German  of  Goethe.] 
[Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship,  Book  2,  Chap.  2.] 

"What  hear  I  at  the  gateway  ringing? 

What  bard  upon  the  drawbridge  singing? 

Go  bid  him  to  repeat  his  song 

Here,  in  the  hall  amid  the  throng," 

The  monarch  cried; 

The  little  page  hied; 

As  back  he  sped, 

The  monarch  said — 

"Bring  in  the  gray-haired  minstrel." 

"I  greet  you,  noble  lords  and  peers; 

I  greet  you,  lovely  dames. 

O  heaven  begemmed  with  golden  spheres! 

Who  knows  your  nobles  names? 

In  hall  of  splendor  so  sublime, 

Close  ye,  mine  eyes — 'tis  not  the  time 

To  gaze  in  idle  wonder." 

The  gray-haired  minstrel  closed  his  eyes; 
He  struck  his  wildest  air; 
Brave  faces  glowed  like  sunset  skies; 
Cast  down  their  eyes  the  fair. 
The  king  well  pleased  with  the  minstrel's  song, 
Sent  the  little  page  through  the  cheering  throng 
A  chain  of  gold  to  bear  him. 
249 


250  THE   MINSTREL 

"O  give  not  me  the  chain  of  gold; 
But  give  it  to  thy  braves, 
Before  whose  faces  fierce  and  bold 
Quail  foes  when  battle  raves ; 
Or  to  thy  chancellor  of  state, 
And  let  him  wear  its  golden  weight 
With  his  official  burdens. 

"I  sing,  I  sing  as  the  wild  birds  sing 

That  in  the  forest  dwell; 

The  songs  that  from  my  full  heart  spring 

Alone  reward  me  well: 

But  may  I  ask  that  page  of  thine 

To  bring  me  one  good  cup  of  wine 

In  golden  goblet  sparkling  ? ' ' 

He  took  the  cup;  he  drank  it  all: 
"The  gods'  own  nectar  thine! 
Thrice  bless'd  the  highly  favored  hall 
Where  flows  such  glorious  wine: 
If  thou  farest  well,  then  think  of  me, 
And  thank  thy  God,  as  I  thank  thee 
For  this  inspiring  goblet." 


O  LET  ME  DREAM  THE  DREAMS  OF  LONG  AGO 


Call  me  not  back,  O  cold  and  crafty  world : 

I  scorn  your  thankless  thanks  and  hollow  praise. 

Wiser  than  seer  or  scientist — content 

To  tread  no  paths  beyond  these  bleating  hills, 

Here  let  me  lie  beneath  this  dear  old  elm, 

Among  the  blossoms  of  the  clover-fields, 

And  listen  to  the  humming  of  the  bees. 

Here  in  those  far-off,  happy,  boyhood  years, 

When  all  my  world  was  bounded  by  these  hills, 

I  dreamed  my  first  dreams  underneath  this  elm. 

Dreamed?     Aye,  and  builded  castles  in  the  clouds; 

Dreamed,  and  made  glad  a  fond,  proud  mother's  heart, 

Now  moldering  into  dust  on  yonder  hill; 

Dreamed  till  my  day-dreams  paved  the  world  with  gold; 

Dreamed  till  my  mad  dreams  made  one  desolate; 

Dreamed — O  my  soul,  and  was  it  all  a  dream? 

As  I  lay  dreaming  under  this  old  elm, 
Building  my  golden  castles  in  the  clouds, 
Her  soft  eyes  peeping  from  the  copse  of  pine, 
Looked  tenderly  on  me  and  my  glad  heart  leaped 
Following  her  footsteps.     O  the  dream — the  dream! 

0  fawn-eyed,  lotus-lipped,  white-bosomed  Flore! 

1  hide  my  bronzed  face  in  your  golden  hair: 
Thou  wilt  not  heed  the  frost  upon  my  beard ; 
Thou  will  not  heed  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow; 
Thou  wilt  not  chide  me  for  my  long  delay. 

251 


252      O   LET\.ME^DREAM    THE   DREAMS    OF    LONG   AGO 

Here  we  stood  heart  to  heart  and  eye  to  eye, 

And  I  looked  down  into  your  inmost  soul, 

The  while  you  drank  my  promise  like  sweet  wine. 

O  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago ! 

Soft  are  the  tender  eyes  of  maiden  love; 

Sweet  is  the  lotus  of  a  dear  girl's  lips 

When  love's  red  roses  blush  in  sudden  bloom: 

0  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago ! 
Hum  soft  and  low,  O  bee-bent  clover- fields ; 
Blink,  blue-eyed  violets,  from  the  dewy  grass; 
Break  into  bloom,  my  golden  dandelions; 
Break  into  bloom,  my  dear  old  apple-trees. 

1  hear  the  robins  cherup  on  the  hedge, 

1  hear  the  warbling  of  the  meadow-larks; 
I  hear  the  silver-fluted  whippowil; 
I  hear  the  harps  that  moan  among  the  pines 
Touched  by  the  ghostly  fingers  of  the  dead. 
Hush ! — let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago. 

And  wherefore  left  I  these  fair,  flowery  fields, 

Where  her  fond  eyes  and  ever  gladsome  voice 

Made  all  the  year  one  joyous,  warbling  June, 

To  chase  my  castles  in  the  passing  clouds — 

False  as  the  mirage  of  some  Indian  isle 

To  shipwrecked  sailors  famished  on  the  brine? 

Wherefore  ? — Look  out  upon  the  babbling  world — 

Fools  clamoring  at  the  heels  of  clamorous  fools! 

I  hungered  for  the  sapless  husks  of  fame. 

Dreaming  I  saw,  beyond  my  native  hills, 

The  sunshine  shimmer  on  the  laurel  trees. 

Ah  tenderly  plead  her  fond  eyes  brimmed  with  tears; 

But  lightly  laughing  at  her  fears  I  turned, 

Eager  to  clutch  my  crown  of  laurel  leaves, 

Strong-souled  and  bold  to  front  all  winds  of  heaven — 

A  lamb  and  lion  molded  into  one — 


O   LET   ME   QREAM    THE   DREAMS    OF   LONG   AGO     253 

And  burst  away  to  tread  the  hollow  world. 
Ah  nut-brown  boys  that  tend  the  lowing  kine, 
Ah  blithesome  plowmen  whistling  on  the  glebe, 
Ah  merry  mowers  singing  in  the  swaths, 
Sweet,  simple  souls,  contented  not  to  know, 
Wiser  are  ye  and  ye  may  teach  the  wise. 

Years  trode  upon  the  heels  of  flying  years, 

And  still  my  Ignis  Faluns  flew  before ; 

On  thorny  paths  my  eager  feet  pursued, 

Till  she  whose  fond  heart  doted  on  my  dreams 

Passed  painless  to  the  pure  eternal  peace. 

Years  trode  upon  the  heels  of  flying  years 

And  touched  my  brown  beard  with  their  silver  wands, 

And  still  my  Ignis  Faluns  flew  before. 

Through  thorns  and  mire  my  torn  feet  followed  still, 

Till  she,  my  darling,  unforgotten  Flore, 

Nursing  her  one  hope  all  those  weary  years 

Waiting  my  tardy  coming,  drooped  and  died. 

I  hear  her  low,  sweet  voice  among  the  pines: 

0  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago : 

1  see  her  fond  eyes  peeping  from  the  pines: 
O  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago 

And  hide  my  bronzed  face  in  her  golden  hair. 

Is  this  the  Indian-summer  of  my  days? 
O  misty,  cheerless  moon  of  falling  leaves! 
Is  this  the  fruitage  promised  by  the  spring? 
O  blighted  clusters  withering  on  the  vine ! 
O  promised  lips  of  love  to  one  who  dreams 
And  wakens  holding  but  the  hollow  air ! 

Let  me  dream  on  lest,  dead  unto  my  dead, 

False  to  the  true  and  true  unto  the  false, 

Maddened  by  thoughts  of  that  which  might  have  been, 


254       O   LET   ME   DREAM    THE   DREAMS    OF   LONG   AGO 

And  weary  of  the  chains  of  that  which  is, 
I  slake  my  heart-thirst  at  forbidden  springs. 
I  hear  the  voices  of  the  moaning  pines ; 
I  hear  the  low,  hushed  whispers  of  the  dead, 
And  one  wan  face  looks  in  upon  my  dreams 
And  wounds  me  with  her  sad,  imploring  eyes. 

The  pale  sun  sinks  beyond  the  misty  hills; 
The  chill  winds  whistle  in  the  leafless  elms; 
The  cold  rain  patters  on  the  fallen  leaves. 
Where  pipes  the  silver-fluted  whippowil? 
I  hear  no  hum  of  bees  among  the  bloom; 
I  hear  no  robin  cherup  on  the  hedge : 
One  dumb,  lone  lark  sits  shivering  in  the  rain. 
I  hear  the  voices  of  the  Autumn  winds; 
I  hear  the  cold  rain  dripping  on  the  leaves; 
I  hear  the  moaning  of  the  somber  pines; 
I  hear  the  hollow  voices  of  the  dead. 
O  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago, 
And  dreaming  pass  into  the  dreamless  sleep — 
Beyond  the  voices  of  the  Autumn  winds, 
Beyond  the  patter  of  the  dreary  rain, 
Beyond  compassion  and  all  vain  regret, 
Beyond  all  waking  and  all  weariness: 
O  let  me  dream  the  dreams  of  long  ago. 
1880. 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 

And  the  scribes  and  Pharisees  brought  unto  him  a  woman  taken  in 
adultery,  and  when  they  had  set  her  in  the  midst,  they  said  unto  him : 
"Master,  this  woman  was  taken  in  adultery,  in  the  very  act.  Now 
Moses  in  the  law  commanded  us  that  such  should  be  stoned ;  but  what 
sayest  thou?" — [St.  John,  Chap,  viii;  3,  4,  5.] 

Reach  thy  hand  to  me,  O  Jesus; 

Reach  thy  loving  hand  to  me, 
Or  I  sink,  alas,  and  perish 

In  my  sin  and  agony. 

From  the  depths  I  cry,  O  Jesus, 

Lifting  up  mine  eyes  to  thee ; 
Save  me  from  my  sin  and  sorrow 

With  thy  loving  charity. 

Pity,  Jesus — blessed  Savior; 

I  am  weak,  but  thou  art  strong; 
Fill  my  heart  with  prayer  and  praises, 

Fill  my  soul  with  holy  song. 

Lift  me  up,  O  sacred  Jesus — 

Lift  my  bruised  heart  to  thee; 
Teach  me  to  be  pure  and  holy 

As  the  holy  angels  be. 

Scribes  and  Pharisees  surround  me: 

Thou  art  writing  in  the  sand: 
Must  I  perish,  Son  of  Mary? 

Wilt  thou  give  the  stern  command? 
255 


256  OUT    OF    THE   DEPTHS 

Am  I  saved? — for  Jesus  sayeth — 
"Let  the  sinless  cast  a  stone." 

Lo  the  Scribes  have  all  departed, 
And  the  Pharisees  are  gone! 

"Woman,  where  are  thine  accusers?" 
(They  have  vanished  one  by  one.) 

"Hath  no  man  condemned  thee,  woman?" 
And  she  meekly  answered — "None." 

Then  he  spake  His  blessed  answer — 
Balm  indeed  to  sinners  sore — 

"Neither  then  will  I  condemn  thee: 
Go  thy  way  and  sin  no  more." 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS 

La  notie  e  ntadre  di  pensieri. — Goldoni. 

I  tumble  and  toss  on  my  pillows, 

As  a  ship  without  rudder  or  spars 
Is  tumbled  and  tossed  on  the  billows, 

'Neath  the  glint  and  the  glory  of  stars. 
'Tis  midnight  and  moonlight,  and  slumber 

Has  hushed  every  heart  but  my  own ; 
O  why  are  these  thoughts  without  number 

Sent  to  me  by  the  man  in  the  moon  ? 

Thoughts  of  the  Here  and  Hereafter, — 

Thoughts  all  unbidden  to  come, — 
Thoughts  that  are  echoes  of  laughter — 

Thoughts  that  are  ghosts  from  the  tomb,- 
Thoughts  that  are  sweet  as  wild  honey, — 

Thoughts  that  are  bitter  as  gall, — 
Thoughts  to  be  coined  into  money, — 

Thoughts  of  no  value  at  all. 

Dreams  that  are  tangled  like  wild-wood, 

A  hint  creeping  in  like  a  hare; 
Visions  of  innocent  childhood, — 

Glimpses  of  pleasure  and  care; 
Brave  thoughts  that  flash  like  a  saber, — 

Cowards  that  crouch  as  they  come, — 
Thoughts  of  sweet  love  and  sweet  labor 

In  the  fields  at  the  old  cottage-home. 
257 


258  NIGHT    THOUGHTS 

Visions  of  maize  and  of  meadow, 

Songs  of  the  birds  and  the  brooks, 
Glimpses  of  sunshine  and  shadow, 

Of  hills  and  the  vine-covered  nooks; 
Dreams  that  were  dreams  of  a  lover, — 

A  face  like  the  blushing  of  morn, — 
Hum  of  bees  and  the  sweet  scent  of  clover, 

And  a  bare-headed  girl  in  the  corn. 

Hopes  that  went  down  in  the  battle, 

Apples  that  crumbled  to  dust, — 
Manna  for  rogues,  and  the  rattle 

Of  hail-storms  that  fall  on  the  just. 
The  "shoddy"  that  lolls  in  her  chariot,— 

Maud  Muller  at  work  in  the  grass : 
Here  a  silver-bribed  Judas  Iscariot, — 

There — Leonidas  dead  in  the  pass. 

Commingled  the  good  and  the  evil; 

Sown  together  the  wheat  and  the  tares; 
In  the  heart  of  the  wheat  is  the  weevil; 

There  is  joy  in  the  midst  of  our  cares. 
The  past, — shall  we  stop  to  regret  it? 

What  is, — shall  we  falter  and  fall? 
If  the  envious  wrong  thee,  forget  it; 

Let  thy  charity  cover  them  all. 

The  cock  hails  the  morn,  and  the  rumble 

Of  wheels  is  aboard  in  the  streets, 
Still  I  tumble  and  mumble  and  grumble 

At  the  fleas  in  my  ears  and — the  sheets; 
Mumble  and  grumble  and  tumble 

Till  the  buzz  of  the  bees  is  no  more; 
In  a  jumble  I  mumble  and  drumble 

And  tumble  off — into  a  snore. 


POETRY 


I  had  rather  write  one  word  upon  the  rock 

Of  ages  than  ten  thousand  in  the  sand. 

The  rock  of  ages ! — No ;  I  cannot  reach 

Its  lofty  shoulders  with  my  puny  hand: 

I  can  but  touch  the  sands  about  its  feet. 

Yea,  I  have  painted  pictures  for  the  blind, 

And  sung  my  sweetest  songs  to  ears  of  stone. 

What  matter  if  the  dust  of  ages  drift 

Five  fathoms  deep  above  my  grave  unknown, 

For  I  have  sung  and  loved  the  songs  I  sung. 

Who  sings  for  fame  the  Muses  may  disown; 

Who  sings  for  gold  will  sing  an  idle  song; 

But  he  who  sings  because  sweet  music  springs 

Unbidden  from  his  heart  and  warbles  long, 

May  haply  touch  another  heart  unknown. 

There  is  sweeter  poetry  in  the  hearts  of  men 

Than  ever  poet  wrote  or  minstrel  sung; 

For  words  are  clumsy  wings  for  burning  thought: 

The  full  heart  falters  on  the  stammering  tongue, 

And  silence  is  more  eloquent  than  song 

When  tender  souls  are  wrung  by  grief  or  shameful  wrong. 

The  grandest  poem  is  God's  Universe: 
In  measured  rhythm  the  planets  whirl  their  course: 
Rhythm  swells  and  throbs  in  every  sun  and  star, 

259 


260  POETRY 

In  mighty  ocean's  organ-peals  and  roar, 

In  billows  bounding  on  the  harbor-bar, 

In  foaming  surf  that  rolls  upon  the  shore, 

In  the  low  zephyr's  sigh,  the  tempest's  sob, 

In  the  rain's  patter  and  the  thunder's  roar; 

Aye,  in  the  awful  earthquake's  shuddering  throb, 

When  old  Earth  cracks  her  bones  and  trembles  to  her  core 

I  hear  a^piper  piping  on  a  reed 

To  listening  flocks  of  sheep  and  bearded  goats; 

I  hear  thejarks^shrill- warbling  o'er  the  mead 

Their  silver^sonnets  from  their  golden  throats; 

And  in  my  boyhood's  clover-fields  I  hear 

The  twittering  swallowrs  and  the  hum  of  bees. 

Ah,  sweeter  to  my  heart  and  to  my  ear 

Than  any  paean  poet  ever  sung, 

The  low,  sweet  music  of  their  melodies; 

Because  I  listened  when  my  soul  was  young, 

In  those  dear  meadows  under  maple  trees. 

My  heart  they  molded  when  its  clay  was  moist, 

And  all  my  life  the  hum  of  honey-bees 

Hath  waked  in  me  a  spirit  that  rejoiced, 

And  touched  the  trembling  chords  of  tenderest  memories. 

I  hear  loud  voices  and  a  clamorous  throng 

With  braying  bugles  and  with  bragging  drums — 

Bards  and  bardies  laboring  at  a  song. 

One  lifts  his  locks,  above  the  rest  preferred, 

And  to  the  buzzing  flies  of  fashion  thrums 

A  banjo.     Lo  him  follow  all  the  herd. 

When  Nero's  wife  put  on  her  auburn  wig, 

And  at  the  Coliseum  showed  her  head, 

The  hair  of  every  dame  in  Rome  turned  red; 

When  Nero  fiddled  all  Rome  danced  a  jig. 

Novelty  sets  the  gabbling  geese  agape, 


POETRY  261 

And  fickle  fashion  follows  like  an  ape. 

Aye,  brass  is  plenty;   gold  is  scarce  and  dear; 

Crystals  abound,  but  diamonds  still  are  rare. 

Is  this- the  golden  age,  or  the  age  of  gold? 

Aye,  by  the  page  or  column  fame  is  sold. 

Hear  the  big  journal  braying  like  an  ass; 

Behold  the  brazen  statesmen  as  they  pass; 

See  dapper  poets  hurrying  for  their  dimes 

With  maudlin  verses  tinsel-tipped  with  rhymes: 

The  Muses  whisper — "  'Tis  the  age  of  brass." 

Workmen  are  plenty,  but  the  masters  few — 

Fewer  to-day  than  in  the  days  of  old. 

Rare  blue-eyed  pansies  peeping  pearled  with  dew, 

And  lilies  lifting  up  their  heads  of  gold, 

Among  the  gaudy  cockscombs  I  behold, 

And  here  and  there  a  lotus  in  the  shade, 

And  under  English  oaks  a  rose*  that  ne'er  will  fade. 

Fair  barks  that  nutter  in  the  sun  your  sails, 

Piping  anon  to  gay  and  tented  shores 

Sweet  music  and  low  laughter,  it  is  well 

Ye  hug  the  haven  when  the  tempest  roars, 

For  only  stalwart  ships  of  oak  or  steel 

May  dare  the  deep  and  breast  the  billowy  sea 

When  sweeps  the  thunder-voiced,  dark  hurricane, 

And  the  mad  ocean  shakes  his  shaggy  mane, 

And  roars  through  all  his  grim  and  vast  immensity. 

The  stars  of  heaven  shine  not  till  it  is  dark. 
Seven  cities  strove  for  Homer's  bones,  'tis  said, 
"Through  which  the  living  Homer  begged  for  bread." 
When  in  their  coffins  they  lay  dumb  and  stark 
Shakespeare  began  to  live,  Dante  to  sing, 
And  Poe's  weird  lute  began  its  werbelling. 
Rear  monuments  of  fame  or  flattery — 

Tennyson. 


262  POETRY 

Think  ye  their  sleeping  souls  are  made  aware? 

Heap  o'er  their  heads  sweet  praise  or  calumny — 

Think  ye  their  moldering  ashes  hear  or  care  ? 

Nay,  praise  and  fame  are  by  the  living  sought; 

But  he  is  wise  who  scorns  their  flattery, 

And  who  escapes  the  tongue  of  calumny 

May  count  himself  an  angel  or  a  naught : 

Ah ! — over  Byron's  grave  a  maggot  writhes  distraught. 

Genius  is  patience,  labor  and  good  sense. 
Steel  and  the  mind  grow  bright  by  constant  use; 
In  rest  they  rust.     A  goodly  recompense 
Comes  from  hard  toil,  but  not  from  its  abuse. 
The  slave,  the  idler,  are  alike  unblessed; 
Aye,  in  loved  labor  only  is  there  rest. 
But  he  will  read  and  range  and  rhyme  in  vain 
Who  hath  no  dust  of  diamonds  in  his  brain; 
And  untaught  genius  is  a  gem  undressed. 
The  life  of  man  is  short,  but  Art  is  long, 
And  labor  is  the  lot  of  mortal  man, 
Ordained  by  God  since  human  time  began: 
Day  follows  day  and  brings  its  toil  and  song. 
Behind  the  western  mountains  sinks  the  moon, 
The  silver  dawn  steals  in  upon  the  dark, 
Up  from  the  dewy  meadow  wheels  the  lark 
And  trills  his  welcome  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  lo  another  day  of  labor  is  begun. 

Poets  are  born,  not  made,  some  scribbler  said, 
And  every  rhymester  thinks  the  saying  true: 
Better  unborn  than  wanting  labor's  aid: 
Aye,  all  great  poets — all  great  men — are  made 
Between  the  hammer  and  the  anvil.     Few 
Have  the  true  metal,  many  have  the  fire. 
No  slave  or  savage  ever  proved  a  bard; 


POETRY  263 

00 

Men  have  their  bent,  but  labor  its  reward, 

And  untaught  fingers  cannot  tune  the  lyre. 

The  poet's  brain  with  spirit- vision  teems; 

The  voice  of  nature  warbles  in  his  heart ; 

A  sage,  a  seer,  he  moves  from  men  apart, 

And  walks  among  the  shadows  of  his  dreams. 

He  sees  God's  light  that  in  all  nature  beams, 

And  when  he  touches  with  the  hand  of  art 

The  song  of  nature  welling  from  his  heart, 

And  guides  it  forth  in  pure  and  hurling  streams, 

Truth  sparkles  in  the  song  and  like  a  diamond  gleams. 

Time  and  patience  change  the  mulberry-leaf 

To  shining  silk;  the  lapidary's  skill 

Makes  the  rough  diamond  sparkle  at  his  will, 

And  cuts  a  gem  from  quartz  or  coral-reef. 

Better  a  skillful  cobbler  at  his  last 

Than  unskilled  poet  twangling  on  the  lyre; 

Who  sails  on  land  and  gallops  on  the  blast, 

And  mounts  the  welkin  on  a  braying  ass, 

Clattering  a  shattered  cymbal  bright  with  brass, 

And  slips  his  girth  and  tumbles  in  the  mire. 

All  poetry  must  be,  if  it  be  true, 

Like  the  keen  arrows  of  the  Grecian  god 

Apollo,  that  caught  fire  as  they  flew. 

Ah,  such  was  Byron's,  but  alas  he  trod 

Ofttimes  among  the  brambles  and  the  rue, 

And  sometimes  dived  full  deep  and  brought  up  mud. 

But  when  he  touched  with  tears,  as  only  he 

Could  touch,  the  tender  chords  of  sympathy, 

His  coldest  critics  warmed  and  marveled  much, 

And  all  old  England's  heart  throbbed  to  his  thrilling  touch 

Truth  is  the  touchstone  of  all  genius.     Art, 
In  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  is  the  same: 


264  POETRY 

What  cometh  from  the  heart  goes  to  the  heart; 

What  comes  from  effort  only  is  but  tame. 

Nature  the  only  perfect  artist  is: 

Who  studies  Nature  may  approach  her  skill; 

Perfection  hers,  but  never  can  be  his, 

Though  her  sweet  voice  his  very  marrow  thrill: 

The  finest  works  of  art  are  Nature's  shadows  still. 

Look  not  for  faultless  men  or  faultless  art; 
Small  faults  are  ever  virtue's  parasites: 
As  in  a  picture  shadows  show  the  lights, 
So  human  foibles  show  the  human  heart. 

O  while  I  live  and  linger  on  the  brink 

Let  the  dear  Muses  be  my  company; 

Their  nectared  goblets  let  my  parched  lips  drink: 

Ah,  let  me  sip  the  soma  of  their  lips! 

As  humming-bird  the  lily's  nectar  sips, 

Or  Houris  sip  the  wine  of  Salsabil. 

Aye,  let  me  to  their  throbbing  music  thrill, 

And  let  me  never  for  one  moment  think, 

E'en  though  no  laurel  crown  my  constancy, 

Their  gracious  smiles  are  false,  their  dearest  kiss  a  lie. 


SAILOR-BOY 


Away,  away,  o'er  the  bounding  sea 

My  spirit  flies  like  a  gull; 
For  I  know  my  Mary  is  watching  for  me, 

When  the  moon  is  bright  and  full. 

She  sits  on  the  rock  by  the  moaning  shore, 

And  gazes  over  the  sea; 
And  she  sighs,  "Will  my  sailor-boy  come  no  more? 

Will  he  never  come  back  to  me?" 

The  moonbeams  play  in  her  raven  hair; 

And  the  soft  breeze  kisses  her  brow; 
But  if  your  sailor-boy,  love,  were  there, 

He  would  kiss  your  sweet  lips,  I  trow. 

And  mother — she  sits  in  the  cottage-door; 

But  her  heart  is  out  on  the  sea; 
And  she  sighs,  "Will  my  sailor-boy  come  no  more? 

Will  he  never  come  home  to  me?" 

Ye  winds  that  over  the  billows  roam 

With  a  low  and  sullen  moan, 
O  swiftly  come  to  waft  me  home; 

O  bear  me  back  to  my  own. 

For  long  have  I  been  on  the  billowy  deep, 
On  the  boundless  waste  of  sea; 
265 


266  THANKSGIVING 

And  while  I  sleep  there  are  two  who  keep, 
Their  lamps  alight  for  me. 

When  the  mad  storm  roars  till  the  stoutest  fear 
And  the  thunders  roll  over  the  sea, 

I  think  of  you,  Mary  and  mother  dear, 
For  I  know  you  are  thinking  of  me. 

Then  blow,  ye  winds,  for  my  swift  return ; 

Let  the  tempest  roar  o'er  the  main; 
Let  the  billows  yearn  and  the  lightning  burn; 

They  will  hasten  me  home  again. 


THANKSGIVING. 

[Nov.  26,  1857,  during  the  great  financial  depression.] 

Father,  our  thanks  are  due  to  thee 

For  many  a  blessing  given, 
By  thy  paternal  love  and  care, 

From  the  bounty-horn  of  heaven. 

We  know  that  still  that  horn  is  filled 

With  blessings  for  our  race, 
And  we  calmly  look  thro'  winter's  storm 

To  thy  benignant  face. 

Father,  we  raise  our  thanks  to  Thee, — 
Who  seldom  thanked  before; 

And  seldom  bent  the  stubborn  knee 
Thy  goodness  to  adore: 

But  Father,  thou  hast  blessings  poured 

On  all  our  wayward  days 
And  now  thy  mercies  manifold 

Have  filled  our  hearts  with  praise 


THANKSGIVING 

The  winter-storm  may  wrack  and  roar; 

We  do  not  fear  its  blast; 
And  we'll  bear  with  faith  and  fortitude 

The  lot  that  thou  hast  cast. 

But  Father,— Father,— O  look  down 
On  the  poor  and  homeless  head, 

And  feed  the  hungry  thousands 
That  cry  to  thee  for  bread. 

Thou  givest  us  our  daily  bread; 

We  would  not  ask  for  more; 
But,  Father,  give  their  daily  bread 

To  the  multitudes  of  poor. 

In  all  the  cities  of  the  land 
The  naked  and  hungry  are; 

O  feed  them  with  thy  manna,  Lord, 
And  clothe  them  with  thy  care. 

Thou  dost  not  give  a  serpent,  Lord, 

We  will  not  give  a  stone; 
For  the  bread  and  meat  thou  givest  us 

Are  not  for  us  alone. 

And  while  a  loaf  is  given  to  us 
From  thy  all-bounteous  horn 

We'll  cheerfully  divide  that  loaf 
With  the  hungry  and  forlorn. 


SPRING. 

Et  nunc  omnis  ager,  nunc  omnis  parturit  arbos; 
Nunc  frond ent  sylvae,  nunc  formosissimus  annus. 

—  Virgil. 

Delightful  harbinger  of  joys  to  come, 

Of  summer's  verdure  and  a  fruitful  year, 
Who  bids  thee  o'er  our  northern  snow-fields  roam, 

And  make  all  gladness  in  thy  bright  career? 
Lo  from  the  Indian  Isle  thou  dost  appear, 

And  dost  a  thousand  pleasures  with  thee  bring: 
But  why  to  us  art  thou  so  ever  dear? 

Bearest  thou  the  hope — upon  thy  radiant  wing — 
Of  Immortality,  O  soft,  celestial  Spring? 

Yea,  buds  and  flowers  that  fade  not,  they  are  thine, 

And  youth-renewing  balms;   the  sear  and  old 
Are  young  and  gladsome  at  thy  touch  divine. 

Thou  breath'st  upon  the  frozen  earth — behold 
Meadows  and  vales  of  grass  and  floral  gold, 

Green-covered  hills  and  leafy  mountains  grand: 
Young  life  leaps  up  where  all  was  dumb  and  cold, 

As  smoldering  embers  into  flame  are  fanned, 
Or  the  dead  came  back  to  life  at  the  touch  of  the  Savior's  han 

The  storm-clouds  fly  the  canopy  of  heaven ; 

The  rivulets  ripple  with  the  merry  tone 
Of  wanton  waters,  and  the  breezes  given 

To  fan  the  budding  hills  are  all  thine  own. 
Returning  songsters  from  the  tropic  zone 

268 


SPRING  269 

Their  vernal  love-songs  in  the  tree-tops  sing, 
And  talk  and  twitter  in  a  tongue  unknown 

Of  joys  that  journey  on  thy  golden  wing, 
And  God  who  sends  thee  forth  to  wake  the  world,  O  Spring! 

Emblem  of  Youth  and  Hope,  immortal  Spring! 
Ah,  now  the  happy  rustic  wends  his  way 

O'er  meadows  decked  with  violets  from  thy  wing, 
And  laboring  to  the  rhythm  of  song  all  day, 

Performs  the  task  the  harvest  shall  repay 
An  hundredfold  into  the  reaper's  hand. 

What  recks  the  tiller  of  his  toil  in  May  ? 
What  cares  he  if  his  cheeks  are  tinged  and  tanned 

By  thy  warm  sunshine-kiss  and  by  thy  breezes  bland? 

Hark  to  the  tinkling  bells  of  grazing  kine ! 

The  lambkins  bleating  on  the  mountain-side ! 
The  red  squirrel  chippering  in  the  proud  old  pine! 

The  pigeon-cock  cooing  to  his  vernal  bride ! 
O'er  all  the  land  and  o'er  the  rippling  tide, 

Singing  and  praising  every  living  thing, 
Till  one  sweet  anthem,  echoed  far  and  wide, 

Makes  all  the  broad  blue  bent  of  ether  ring 
With  welcomings  to  thee,  God-given,  supernal  Spring. 

May  1 ,  1855. 


THE  REIGN  OF  REASON. 


The  day  of  truth  is  dawning.     I  behold 

O'er  darksome  hills  the  trailing  robes  of  gold 

And  silent  footsteps  of  the  gladsome  dawn. 

The  morning  breaks  by  sages  long  foretold; 

Truth  comes  to  set  upon  the  world  her  thorne. 

Men  lift  their  foreheads  to  the  rising  sun, 

And  lo  the  reign  of  Reason  is  begun. 

Fantastic  phantasms  fly  before  the  light — 

Pale,  gibbering  ghosts  and  ghouls  and  goblin  fears : 

Man  who  hath  walked  in  sleep — what  thousands  years? 

Groping  among  the  shadows  of  the  night, 

Moon-struck  and  in  a  weird  somnambulism, 

Mumbling  some  cunning  cant  or  catechism, 

Thrilled  by  the  electric  magic  of  the  skies — 

Sun-touched  by  Truth — awakes  and  rubs  his  eyes. 

Old  Superstition  mother  of  cruel  creeds, 
O'er  all  the  earth  hath  sown  her  dragon-teeth. 
Ah,  centuries  on  centuries  the  seeds 
Grew  rank,  and  from  them  all  the  haggard  breeds 
Of  Hate  and  Fear  and  Hell  and  cruel  Death. 
And  still  her  sunken  eyes  glare  on  mankind; 
Her  livid  lips  grin  horrible;  her  hands, 
Shriveled  to  bone  and  sinew,  clutch  all  lands 
And  with  blind  fear  lead  on  or  drive  the  blinu. 
Aye,  ignorance  and  fear  go  hand  in  han-l. 

270 


THE  REIGN  OF  REASON  271 

Twin-born,  and  broadcast  scatter  hate  and  thorns, 

They  people  earth  with  ghosts  and  hell  with  horns, 

And  sear  the  eyes  of  men  with  burning  brand. 

Behold,  the  serried  ranks  of  Truth  advance, 

And  conquering  Science  shakes  her  shining  lance 

Full  in  the  face  of  stubborn  Ignorance. 

But  Superstition  is  a  monster  still — 

An  Hydra  we  may  scotch  but  hardly  kill; 

For  if  with  sword  of  Truth  we  lop  a  head, 

How  soon  another  groweth  in  its  stead ! 

All  men  are  slaves.     Yea,  some  are  slave  to  wine 

And  some  to  women,  some  to  glimmering  gold, 

But  all  to  habit  and  to  customs  old. 

Around  our  stunted  souls  old  tenets  twine, 

And  it  is  hard  to  straighten  in  the  oak 

The  crook  that  in  the  sapling  had  its  start : 

The  callous  neck  is  glad  to  wear  the  yoke; 

Nor  reason  rules  the  head,  but  aye  the  heart: 

The  head  is  weak,  the  throbbing  heart  is  strong; 

But  when  the  heart  is  right  the  head  is  not  far  wrong. 

Men  have  been  learning  error  age  on  age, 
And  superstition  is  their  heritage 
Bequeathed  from  age  to  age  and  sire  to  son 
Since  the  dim  history  of  the  world  begun. 
Trust  paves  the  way  for  treachery  to  tread; 
Under  the  cloak  of  virtue  vices  creep; 
Fools  chew  the  chaff  while  cunning  eats  the  bread, 
And  wolves  become  the  shepherds  of  the  sheep. 
The  mindless  herd  are  but  the  cunning's  tools; 
For  ages  have  the  learned  of  the  schools 
Furnished  pack-saddles  for  the  backs  of  fools. 
Pale  Superstition  loves  the  gloom  of  night; 
Truth,  like  a  diamond,  ever  loves  the  light. 


272  THE   REIGN    OF    REASON 

But  still  'twere  wrong  to  speak  but  in  abuse, 

For  priests  and  popes  have  had,  and  have,  their  use. 

Yea,  Superstition  since  the  world  began 

Hath  been  a  magic  wand  to  govern  man : 

For  men  were  brutes,  and  brutal  fear  was  given 

To  chain  the  beast  till  Reason  came  from  heaven. 

Aye,  men  were  beasts  for  lo  how  many  ages! 

And  only  fear  held  them  in  chains  and  cages. 

Wise  men  were  priests,  and  gladly  I  accord 

They  were  the  priests  and  prophets  of  the  Lord ; 

For  love  was  lust,  and  o'er  all  earth's  arena 

Hell-fire  alone  could  tame  the  wild  hyena. 

All^history  is  the  register,  we  find, 

Of  the  crimes  and  lusts  and  sufferings  of  mankind;* 

And  there  be  still  dark  lands  where  it  is  well 

That  Superstition  wear  the  horns  of  hell, 

And  hold  her  bludgeon  o'er  the  brutal  head, 

And  fright  the  beast  with  fire  and  goblin  dread 

Till  Reason  come  the  darkness  to  dispel. 

How  hard  it  is  for  mortals  to  unlearn 

Beliefs  bred  in  the  marrow  of  their  bones ! 

How  hard  it  is  for  mortals  to  discern 

The  truth  that  preaches  from  the  very  stones, 

The  silent  hills,  the  silent  universe, 

While  Vengeance  cries  in  sanctimonious  tones 

That  all  the  light  of  life  and  God  is  hers! 

Lo  in  the  midst  we  stand:  we  cannot  see 

Either  the  dark  beginning  or  the  end, 

Or  where  our  tottering  footsteps  turn  or  trend 

In  the  vast  orbit  of  Eternity. 

Let  Reason  be  our  light — the  only  light 

That  God  hath  given  unto  benighted  man, 

*  Gibbon — Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  Chapter  3. 


THE   REIGN    OF   REASON  273 

Wherewith  to  get  a  glimpse  of  his  vast  plan 
And  stars  of  hope  that  glimmer  on  our  night. 
Lo  all-pervading  Unity  is  His; 
Lo  all-pervading  Unity  is  He: 
One  mighty  heart  throbs  in  the  earth  and  sea, 
In  every  star  through  heaven's  immensity, 
And  God  in  all  things  breathes,  in  all  things  is. 
God's  perfect  order  rules  the  vast  expanse, 
And  Love  is  queen  and  all  the  realms  are  hers; 
But  strike  one  sun-star  from  the  Universe 
And  all  is  chaos  and  unbridled  chance. 

And  is  there  life  beyond  this  life  below? 

Aye,  is  death  death  ? — or  but  a  happy  change 

From  night  to  light — on  angel  wings  to  range, 

And  sing  the  songs  of  seraphs  as  we  go? 

Alas,  the  more  we  know  the  less  we  know  we  know. 

God  hath  laid  down  the  limits  we  cannot  pass; 
And  it  is  well  he  giveth  us  no  glass 
Wherewith  to  see  beyond  the  present  glance, 
Else  we  might  die  a  thousand  deaths  perchance 
Before  our  bones  are  laid  beneath  the  grass. 
What  is  the  soul,  and  whither  will  it  fly? 
We  only  know  that  matter  cannot  die, 
But  lives  and  lived  through  all  eternity, 
And  ever  turns  from  hoary  age  to  youth. 
And  is  the  soul  not  worthier  than  the  dust? 
Sofin  His  providence  we  put  our  trust; 
And  so  we  humbly  hope,  for  God  is  just — 
Father  all-wise,  unmoved  by  wrath  or  ruth. 
What  then  is  certain — what  eternal? — Truth, 
Almighty  God,  Time,  Space  and  Cosmic  Dust. 


DANIEL. 

(Written  at  the  grave  of  my  old  friend,  Governor 


"Ausgelitten  hast  du, — ausgerungen." — Reitzenstein. 

Down  into  the  darkness  at  last,  Daniel, — down  into  the  darkness  at 

last; 

Laid  in  the  lap  of  our  Mother,  Daniel, — sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep, — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  babe  unborn — the  pure  and  the  perfect  rest 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  this  fitful  fever  and  pain  ? 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better,  if  only  the  dead  soul  knew? 
Joy  was  there  in  the  spring-time  and  hope  like  a  blossoming  rose, 
When  the  wine-blood  of  youth  ran  tingling  and  throbbing  in  every 

vein; 

Chirrup  of  robin  and  blue-bird  in  the  white-blossomed  apple  and  pear; 
Carpets  of  green  on  the  meadows  spangled  with  dandelions; 
Lowing  of  kine  in  the  valleys,  bleating  of  lambs  on  the  hills; 
Babble  of  brooks  and  the  prattle  of  fountains  that  flashed  in  the  sun; 
Glad,  merry  voices,  ripples  of  laughter,  snatches  of  music  and  song, 
And  blue-eyed  girls  in  the  gardens  that  blushed  like  the  roses  they 

wore. 

And  life  was  a  pleasure  un vexed,  unmingled  with  sorrow  and  pain  ? 
A  round  of  delight  from  the  blink  of  morn  till  the  moon  rose  laughin  \ 

Sit  night? 

Nay,  there  were  cares  and  cankers — envy  and  hunger  and  hate; 
Death  and  disease  in  the  pith  of  the  limbs,  in  the  root  and  the  bud 

and  the  branch; 

A  sore  wound,  alas,  at  the  heart,  and  a  canker-worm  gnawing  therein, 

274 


DANIEL  275 

The  summer  of  life  came  on  with  its  heat  and  its  struggle  and  toil, 
Sweat  of  the  brow  and  the  soul,  throbbing  of  muscle  and  brain, 
Toil  and  moil  and  grapple  with  Fortune  clutched  as  she  flew — 
Only  a  shred  of  her  robe,  and  a  brave  heart  baffled  and  bowed! 
Stern- visaged  Fate  with  a  hand  of  iron  uplifted  to  fell; 
The  secret  stab  of  a  friend  that  stung  like  the  sting  of  an  asp, 
Wringing  red  drops  from  the  soul  and  a  stifled  moan  of  despair ; 
The  loose  lips  of  gossip  and  then — a  storm  of  slander  and  lies, 
Till  Justice  was  blind  as  a  bat  and  deaf  to  the  cries  of  the  just, 
And  Mercy,  wrapped  up  in  her  robe,  stood  by  like  a  statue  in  stone. 

Sear  autumn  followed  the  summer  with  frost  and  the  falling  of  leaves 

And  red-ripe  apples  that  blushed  on  the  hills  in  the  orchards  of  peace : 

Red-ripe  apples,  alas,  with  worms  writhing  down  to  the  core, 

Apples  of  ashes  and  fungus  that  fell  into  rot  at  a  touch ; 

Clusters  of  grapes  in  the  vineyard  blighted  and  sour  on  the  vines; 

Wheat-fields  that  waved  in  the  valley  and  promised  a  harvest  of  gold, 

Thrashing  but  chaff  and  weevil  or  cockle  and  shriveled  cheat. 

Fair  was  the  promise  of  spring-time ;   the  harvest  a  harvest  of  lies : 

Fair  was  the  promise  of  summer  with  Fortune  clutched  by  the  robe; 

Fair  was  the  promise  of  autumn — a  hollow  harlot  in  red, 

A  withered  rose  at  her  girdle  and  the  thorns  of  the  rose  in  her  hand. 

Down  into  the  darkness  at  last,  Daniel, — down  into  the  darkness  at 

last; 

Laid  in  the  lap  of  our  Mother,  Daniel,  sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  babe  unborn — the  pure  and  the  perfect  rest: 

Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  this  fitful  fever  and  pain  ? 

Aye,  and  is  it  not  better,  if  only  the  dead  soul  knew  ? 

Dead  Ashes,  what  do  you  care  if  it  storm,  if  it  shine,  if  it  lower? 

Hail-storm,  tornado  or  tempest,  or  the  blinding  blizzard  of  snow, 

Or  the  mid-May  showers  on  the  blossoms  with  the  glad  sun  blinking 

between  ? 
Dead  Ashes,  what  do  you  care  ? — they  break  not  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 


276  DANIEL 

Proud  stands  the  ship  to  the  sea,  fair  breezes  belly  her  sails; 
Strong-masted,  stanch  in  her  shrouds,  stanch  in  her  beams  and  her 

bones ; 

Bound  for  Hesperian  isles — for  the  isles  of  the  plantain  and  palm, 
Hope  walks  her  deck  with  a  smile  and  Confidence  stands  at  the  helm; 
Proudly  she  turns  to  the  sea  and  walks  like  a  queen  on  the  waves. 
Caught  in  the  grasp  of  the  tempest,  lashed  by  the  fiends  of  the  storm, 
Torn  into  shreds  are  her  sails,  tumble  her  masts  to  the  main; 
Rudderless,  rolling  she  drives  and  groans  in  the  grasp  of  the  sea: 
Harbor  or  hope  there  is  none ;  she  goes  to  her  grave  in  the  brine : 
Dead  in  the  fathomless  slime  lie  the  bones  of  the  ship  and  her  crew. 
Such  is  the  promise  of  life;   so  is  the  promise  fulfilled. 

Down  into  the  darkness  at  last,  Daniel, — down  into  the  darkness  at 

last; 

Laid  in  the  lap  of  our  Mother,  Daniel, — sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep,— 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  babe  unborn — the  pure  and  the  perfect  rest: 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  this  fitful  fever  and  pain  ? 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better,  if  only  the  dead  soul  knew  ? 
Over  your  grave  the  tempest  may  roar  or  the  zephyr  sigh; 
Over  your  grave  the  blue-bells  may  blink  or  the  snow-drifts  whirl,— 
Dead  Ashes,  what  do  you  care  ?— they  break  not  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
They  that  were  friends  may  mourn,  they  that  were  friends  may  praise; 
They  that  knew  you,  and  yet — knew  you  never — may  cavil  and  blame; 
They  that  were  cowardly  foes  may  strike  at  you  down  in  the  grave ; 
Slander,  the  scavenger-buzzard — may  vomit  her  lies  on  you  there: 
Dead  Ashes,  what  do  you  care  ? — they  break  not  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 

The  hoarse,  low  voice  of  the  years  croaks  on  f orever-and-aye : 

Change!  Change!  Change!  and  the  winters  wax  and  wane. 

The  old  oak  dies  in  the  forest;  the  acorn  sprouts  at  its  feet; 

The  sea  gnaws  on  at  the  land;   the  continent  crowds  on  the  sea. 

Bound  to  the  Ixion  wheel  with  brazen  fetters  of  fate 

Man  rises  up  from  the  dust  and  falls  to  the  dust  again. 

Gcd  washes  our  eyes  with  tears,  and  still  they  are  blinded  with]dust: 


DANIEL  277 

We  grope  in  the  dark  and  marvel,  and  pray  to  the  Power  unknown — 

Crying  for  help  to  the  desert:   not  even  an  echo  replies. 

Doomed  unto  death  like  the  moon,  like  the  midget  that  men  call  man, 

Wrinkled  with  age  and  agony  the  old  Earth  rolls  her  rounds; 

Shrinking  and  shuddering  she  rolls — an  atom  in  God's  great  sea — 

Only  an  atom  of  dust  in  the  infinite  ocean  of  space. 

What  to  him  are  the  years  who  sleeps  in  her  bosom  there  ? 

What  to  him  is  the  cry  wrung  out  of  the  souls  of  men  ? 

Change,  Change,  Change,  and  the  sea  gnaws  on  at  the  land: 

Dead  Ashes,  what  do  you  care? — it  breaks  not  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 

Lay  the  finger-tips  of  Silence  on  the  shriveled  lips  of  Time. 

Down  into  the  Darkness  at  last,  Daniel, — down  into  the  darkness  at 

last; 

Laid  in  the  lap  of  our  Mother,  Daniel, — sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep, — 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  babe  unborn — the  pure  and  the  perfect  rest : 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  this  fitful  fever  and  pain  ? 
Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  if  only  the  dead  soul  knew  ? 

Up — out  of  the  darkness  at  last,  Daniel, — out  of  the  darkness  at  last ; 

Into  the  light  of  the  life  eternal — into  the  sunlight  of  God, 

Singing  the  song  of  the  soul  immortal  freed  from  the  fetters  of  flesh : 

Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  this  fitful  fever  and  pain  ? 

Aye,  and  is  it  not  better  than  sleeping  the  dreamless  sleep  ? 

Hark!  from  the  reel  of  the  spheres  eternal  the  freed  soul  answereth 

"Aye." 
Aye — Aye — Aye — it  is  better,  brothers,  if  it  be  but  the  dream  of  the. 

famished  soul. 


THE  PIONEER. 
[MINNESOTA— 1860— 1875] 

When  Mollie  and  I  were  married  from  the  dear  old  cottage-home 

In  the  vale  between  the  hills  of  fir  and  pine, 
I  parted  with  a  sigh  in  a  stranger-land  to  roam, 

And  to  find  a  western  home  for  me  and  mine. 

By  a  grove-encircled  lake  in  the  wild  and  prairied  West, 

As  the  sun  was  sinking  down  one  summer  day, 
I  laid  my  knapsack  down  and  my  weary  limbs  to  rest, 

And  resolved  to  build  a  cottage-home  and  stay. 

I  staked  and  marked  my  "corners,"  and  I  "filed"  upon  my  "claim, 
And  I  built  a  cottage-home  of  "logs  and  shakes;" 

And  then  I  wrote  a  letter,  and  Mollie  and  baby  came 
Out  to  bless  me  and  to  bake  my  johnny-cakes. 

When  Mollie  saw  my  "cottage"  and  the  way  that  I  had  "bached," 

She  smiled,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  "blue;" 
Then  she  found  my  "  Sunday-clothes"  all  soiled  and  torn  and  patchec 

And  she  hid  her  face  and  shed  a  tear  or  two. 

But  she  went  to  work  in  earnest  and  the  cabin  fairly  shone, 

And  her  dinners  were  so  savory  and  so  nice 
That  I  felt  it  was  "not  good  that  the  man  should  be  alone" — 

Even  in  this  lovely  land  of  Paradise. 

Well,  the  neighbors  they  were  few  and  were  many  miles  apart, 
And  you  couldn't  hear  the  locomotive  scream; 

278 


THE    PIONEER  279 

But  I  was  young  and  hardy,  and  my  Molly  gave  me  heart, 
And  my  "steers"  they  made  a  fast  and  fancy  team. 

And  the  way  I  broke  the  sod  was  a  marvel  you  can  bet, 

For  I  fed  my  "steer"  before  the  dawn  of  day; 
And  when  the  sun  went  under  I  was  plowing  prairie  yet, 

Till  my  Mollie  blew  the  old  tin  horn  for  tea. 

And  the  lazy,  lousy  "Injuns"  came  a-loafing  round  the  lake, 

And  a-begging  for  a  bone  or  bit  of  bread; 
And  the  sneaking  thieves  would  steal  whatever  they  could  take — 

From  the  very  house  where  they  were  kindly  fed. 

O  the  eastern  preachers  preach,  and  the  long-haired  poets  sing 
Of  the  "noble  braves"  and  "dusky  maidens  fair;" 

But  if  they  had  pioneered  'twould  have  been  another  thing 
When  the  "Injuns"  got  a-hankering  for  their  "hair." 

Often  when  we  lay  in  bed  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 

How  the  prairie  wolves  would  howl  their  jubilee ! 
Then  Mollie  she  would  waken  in  a  shiver  and  a  fright, 

Clasp  our  baby-pet  and  snuggle  up  to  me. 

There  were  hardships  you  may  guess,  and  enough  of  weary  toil 

For  the  first  few  years,  but  then  it  was  so  grand 
To  see  the  corn  and  wheat  waving  o'er  the  virgin  soil, 

And  two  stout  and  loving  hearts  went  hand  in  hand. 

But  Mollie  took  the  fever  when  our  second  babe  was  born, 

And  she  lay  upon  the  bed  as  white  as  snow; 
And  my  idle  cultivator  lay  a  rusting  in  the  corn; 

And  the  doctor  said  poor  Mollie  she  must  go. 

Now  I  never  prayed  before,  but  I  fell  upon  my  knees, 

And  I  prayed  as  never  any  preacher  prayed; 
And  Mollie  always  said  that  it  broke  the  fell  disease; 

And  I  truly  think  the  Lord  He  sent  us  aid: 


280  THE    PIONEER 

For  the  fever  it  was  broken,  and  she  took  a  bit  of  food, 

And  O  then  I  went  upon  my  knees  again; 
And  I  never  cried  before, — and  I  never  thought  I  could, — 

But  my  tears  they  fell  upon  her  hand  like  rain. 

And  I  think  the  Lord  has  blessed  us  ever  since  I  prayed  the  prayer, 

For  my  crops  have  never  wanted  rain  or  dew: 
And  Mollie  often  said  in  the  days  of  debt  and  care, 

"Don't  you  worry,  John,  the  Lord  will  help  us  through." 

For  the  pesky,  painted  Sioux,  in  the  fall  of  'sixty-two, 

Came  a-whooping  on  their  ponies  o'er  the  plain, 
And  they  killed  my  pigs  and  cattle,  and  I  tell  you  it  looked  "blue," 

When  they  danced  around  my  blazing  stacks  of  grain. 

The  settlers  mostly  fled,  but  I  didn't  have  a  chance, 

So  I  grabbed  my  hunting-rifle  long  and  true, 
And  Mollie  poured  the  powder  while  I  made  the  devils  dance 

To  a  tune  that  made  'em  jump  and  tumble,  too. 

And  they  fired  upon  the  cabin;    'twas  as  good  as  any  fort, 

But  the  "beauties"  wouldn't  give  us  any  rest; 
For  they  skulked  and  blazed  away,  and  I  didn't  call  it  sport, 

For  I  had  to  do  my  very  "level  best." 

Now  they  don't  call  me  a  coward,  but  my  Mollie  she's  a  "brick;" 
For  she  chucked  the  children  down  the  cellar-way, 

And  she  never  flinched  a  hair  tho'  the  bullets  pattered  thick, 
And  we  held  the  "painted  beauties"  well  at  bay. 

But  once  when  I  was  aiming  a  bullet  grazed  my  head, 

And  it  cut  the  scalp  and  made  the  air  look  blue; 
Then  Mollie  straightened  up  like  a  soldier  and  she  said: 

"Never  mind  it,  John,  the  Lord  will  help  us  through." 

And  you  bet  it  raised  my  grit,  and  I  never  flinched  a  bit, 
And  my  nerves  they  got  as  strong  as  steel  or  brass; 


THE   PIONEER  281 

And  when  I  fired  again  I  was  sure  that  I  had  hit, 
For  I  saw  the  skulking  devil  "claw  the  grass." 

Well,  the  fight  was  long  and  hot,  and  I  got  a  charge  of  shot 

In  the  shoulder,  but  it  never  broke  a  bone; 
And  I  never  stopped  to  think  whether  I  was  hit  or  not 

Till  we  found  our  ammunition  almost  gone. 

But  the  "Rangers"  came  at  last — just  as  we  were  out  of  lead, — 
And  I  thanked  the  Lord,  and  Mollie  thanked  Him,  too; 

Then  she  put  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  sobbed  and  cried  and 

said: 
"Bless  the  Lord! — I  knew  that  He  would  help  us  through." 

And  yonder  on  the  hooks  hangs  that  same  old  trusty  gun, 

And  above  it — I  am  sorry  they're  so  few — 
Hang  the  black  and  braided  trophies*  yet  that  I  and  Mollie  won 

In  that  same  old  bloody  battle  with  the  Sioux. 

Fifteen  years  have  rolled  away  since  I  laid  my  knapsack  down, 

And  my  prairie  claim  is  now  one  field  of  grain ; 
And  yonder  down  the  lake  loom  the  steeples  of  the  town, 

And  my  flocks  are  feeding  out  upon  the  plain. 

The  old  log-house  is  standing  filled  with  bins  of  corn  and  wheat, 

And  the  cars  they  whistle  past  our  cottage-home; 
But  my  span  of  spanking  trotters  they  are  just  about  as  fleet, 

And  I  wouldn't  give  my  farm  to  rule  in  Rome. 

For  Mollie  and  I  are  young  yet,  and  monarchs,  too,  are  we 

Of  a  "section"  just  as  good  as  lies  out  doors; 
And  the  children  are  so  happy  (and  Mollie  and  I  have  three), 

And  we  think  that  we  can  lie  upon  our  oars. 

So  this  summer  we  went  back  to  the  old  home  by  the  hill: 
O  the  hills  they  were  so  rugged  and  so  tall!         » 

*Scalp-locks. 


282  THE    PIONEER 

And  the  firs  and  pines  were  gone  but  the  rocks  were  all  there  still, 
And  the  valley  looked  so  crowded  and  so  small; 

And  the  dear  familiar  faces  that  I  longed  so  much  to  see, 

Looked  so  strangely  unfamiliar  and  so  old, 
That  the  land  of  hills  and  valleys  was  no  more  a  home  to  me, 

And  the  river  seemed  a  rivulet  as  it  rolled. 

So  gladly  I  returned  to  the  prairies  of  the  West — 
To  the  boundless  fields  of  waving  grass  and  corn ; 

For  I  love  the  lake-gemmed  land  where  the  wild-goose  builds  her  nest 
Far  better  than  the  land  where  I  was  born. 

And  I  mean  to  lay  my  bones  over  yonder  by  the  lake — 

By  and  by  when  I  have  nothing  else  to  do — 
And  I'll  give  the  "chicks"  the  farm,  and  I  know  for  Mollie's  sake, 

That  the  good  and  gracious  Lord  will  help  'em  through. 


MAULEY 

THE    BRAVE    FERRY-MAN. 

[Note. — The  great  Sioux  massacre  in  Minnesota  commenced  at  the  Agency  village,  on  the  Min 
nesota  River,  early  in  the  morning  of  the  18th  day  of  August,  1862,  precipitated,  doubtless,  by  the 
murders  at  Acton  on  the  day  previous.  The  massacre  and  the  Indian  war  that  followed  developed 
many  brave  men,  but  no  truer  hero  than  Mauley,  an  obscure  Frenchman,  the  ferry-man  at  the 
Agency.  Continually  under  fire,  he  resolutely  ran  his  ferry-boat  back  and  forth  across  the  river, 
affording  the  terror-stricken  people  the  only  chance  for  escape.  He  was  shot  down  on  his  boat 
just  as  he  had  landed  on  the  opposite  shore,  the  last  of  those  who  fled  from  the  burning  village  to 
the  ferry-landing.  The  Indians  disemboweled  his  dead  body,  exit  off  the  head,  hands  and  feet  and 
thrust  them  into  the  cavity. — Heard' s  Hist.  Sioux  War,  p.  67.*] 

Crouching  in  the  early  morning, 
Came  the  swarth  and  naked  "  Sioux;  "f 
On  the  village,  without  warning, 
Fell  the  sudden,  savage  blow. 
Horrid  yell  and  crack  of  rifle 
Mingle  as  the  flames  arise; — 
With  the  tomahawk  they  stifle 
Mothers'  screams  and  children's  cries. 
Men  and  women  to  the  ferry 
Fly  from  many  a  blazing  cot; — 
Brave  and  ready — grim  and  steady, 
Mauley  mans  the  ferry-boat. 

Can  they  cross  the  ambushed  river? 
'Tis  for  life  the  only  chance; 
Only  this  may  some  deliver 
From  the  scalping-knife  and  lance. 

*  I  think  Mr.  Heard  was  misinformed.  I  was  t9ld  by  Jean  Vadnais,  who  assisted  in  burying 
Mauley,  that  he  was  scalped,  but  otherwise  his  remains  were  not  mutilated;  and  that  the  Dakotas 
put  an  eagle-feather  in  his  hair  to  signify  their  admiration  of  his  bravery. — H.  L.  G. 

t  Pronounced  Soo;  a  name  given  to  the  Dakotas  in  early  days  by  the  French  traders. 

283 


284  If  A  ULE  Y 


Through  the  throng  of  wailing  women 
Frantic  men  in  terror  burst ; — 
"Back,  ye  cowards!"  thundered  Mauleyv 
"I  will  take  the  women  first!" 
Then  with  brawny  arms  and  lever 
Back  the  craven  men  he  smote. 
Brave  and  ready — grim  and  steady, 
Mauley  mans  the  ferry-boat. 

To  and  fro  across  the  river 

Plies  the  little  mercy-craft, 

While  from  ambushed  gun  and  quiver 

On  it  falls  the  fatal  shaft. 

Trembling  from  the  burning  village 

Still  the  terror-stricken  fly, 

For  the  Indians'  love  of  pillage 

Stays  the  bloody  tragedy. 

At  the  windlass-bar  bare-headed — 

Bare  his  brawny  arms  and  throat — 

Brave  and  ready — grim  and  steady, 

Mauley  mans  the  ferry-boat. 

Hark ! — a  sudden  burst  of  war-whoops ! 
They  are  bent  on  murder  now; 
Down  the  ferry-road  they  rally, 
Led  by  furious  Little  Crow. 
Frantic  mothers  clasp  their  children, 
And  the  help  of  God  implore; 
Frantic  men  leap  in  the  river 
Ere  the  boat  can  reach  the  shore. 
Mauley  helps  the  weak  and  wounded 
Till  the  last  soul  is  afloat; — 
Brave  and  ready — grim  and  steady, 
Mauley  mans  the  ferry-boat. 


MA  ULE  Y  285 


Speed  the  craft! — The  fierce  Dakotas 
Whoop  and  hasten  to  the  shore, 
And  a  shower  of  shot  and  arrows 
On  the  crowded  boat  they  pour. 
Fast  it  floats  across  the  river, 
Managed  by  the  master  hand, 
Laden  with  a  freight  so  precious, — 
God  be  thanked ! — it  reaches  land. 
Where  is  Mauley — grim  and  steady, 
Shall  his  brave  deed  be  forgot? 
Grasping  still  the  windlass-lever — 
Safe  beyond  all  fear  forever — 
Dead  he  lies  upon  the  boat. 


TO  MOLLIE 


0  Mollie,  I  wish  I  possessed  such  a  heart; 
It  enchants  me — so  gentle  and  true; 

1  wish  I  possessed  all  its  magical  art, 

Then,  Mollie,  I  would  enchant  you. 

Those  dear,  rosy  lips — tho'  I  never  caressed  them(?) — 

Are  as  sweet  as  the  wild  honey-dew; 
Your  cheeks — all  the  angels  in  Heaven  have  blessed  them, 

But  not  one  is  as  lovely  as  you. 

1855. 


ISABEL. 


Fare-thee-well : 
On  my  soul  the  toll  of  bell 
Trembles.     Thou  art  calmly  sleeping 
While  my  weary  heart  is  weeping: 
I  cannot  listen  to  thy  knell: 
Fare-thee-well. 

Sleep  and  rest: 

Sorrow  shall  not  pain  thy  breast, 
Pangs  and  pains  that  pierce  the  mortal 
Cannot  enter  at  the  portal 

Of  the  Mansion  of  the  Blest: 

Sleep  and  rest. 

286 


TO  SYLVIA  287 

Fare-thee-well : 
In  the  garden  and  the  dell 
Where  thou  lov'dst  to  stroll  and  meet  me, 
Nevermore  thy  kiss  shall  greet  me, 
Nevermore,  O  Isabel! 
Fare-thee-well. 

We  shall  meet — 
Where  the  wings  of  angels  beat: 
When  my  toils  and  cares  are  over, 
Thou  shalt  greet  again  thy  lover — 
Robed  and  crowned  at  Jesus'  feet 

We  shall  meet. 


TO  SYLVIA. 

I  know  thou  art  true,  and  I  know  thou  art  fair 
As  the  rose-bud  that  blooms  in  thy  beautiful  hair; 

Thou  art  far,  but  I  feel  the  warm  throb  of  thy  heart; 
Thou  art  far,  but  I  love  thee  wherever  thou  art. 

Wherever  at  noontide  my  spirit  may  be, 

At  evening  it  silently  wanders  to  thee; 
It  seeks  thee,  my  dear  one,  for  comfort  and  rest, 

As  the  weary- winged  dove  seeks  at  night-fall  her  nest. 

Through  the  battle  of  life — through  its  sorrow  and  care- 
Till  the  mortal  sink  down  with  its  load  of  despair, — 

Till  we  meet  at  the  feet  of  the  Father  and  Son, 
I'll  love  thee  and  cherish  thee,  beautiful  one. 
1859. 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO. 


I  am  growing  old  and  weary 

Ere  yet  my  locks  are  gray; 
Before  me  lies  eternity, 

Behind  me — but  a  day. 
How  fast  the  years  are  vanishing! 

They  pass  like  April  snow: 
It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

There's  the  school-house  on  the  hill-side, 

And  the  romping  scholars  all; 
Where  we  used  to  con  our  daily  tasks, 

And  play  our  games  of  ball. 
They  rise  to  me  in  visions — 

In  sunny  dreams — and — ho! 
I  sport  among  the  boys  and  girls — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

We  played  at  ball  in  summer  time — 

We  boys — with  hearty  will; 
With  merry  shouts  in  winter  time 

We  coasted  on  the  hill. 
We  would  choose  our  chiefs,  divide  in  bands, 

And  build  our  forts  of  snow, 
And  storm  those  forts  right  gallantly — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

288 


TWENTY    YEARS   AGO  289 

Last  year  in  June  I  visited 

That  dear  old  sacred  spot, 
But  the  school-house  on  the  hill-side 

And  the  merry  shouts  were  not. 
A  church  was  standing  where  it  stood; 

I  looked  around,  but  no — 
I  could  not  see  the  boys  and  girls 

Of  twenty  years  ago. 

There  was  sister  dear,  and  brother, 

Around  the  old  home-hearth ; 
And  a  tender,  Christian  mother, 

Too  angel-like  for  earth. 
She  used  to  warn  me  from  the  paths 

Where  thorns  and  brambles  grow, 
And  lead  me  in  the  "narrow  way" — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

I  loved  her  and  I  honored  her 

Through  all  my  boyhood  years ; 
I  knew  her  joys — I  knew  her  cares — 

I  knew  her  hopes  and  fears. 
But  alas,  one  winter  morning 

She  left  her  home  below, 
And  she  left  us  there  a-weeping — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

They  bore  her  to  the  church-yard, 

With  slow  and  solemn  pace; 
And  there  I  took  my  last  fond  look 

On  her  dear,  peaceful  face. 
They  lowered  her  in  her  silent  grave, 

While  we  bowed  our  heads  in  woe, 
And  they  heaped  the  sods  above  her  head — 

Twenty  years  ago. 


290  TWENTY    YEARS   AGO 

That  low,  sweet  voice — my  mother's  voic< 

I  never  can  forget; 
And  in  those  loving  eyes  I  see 

The  big  tears  trembling  yet. 
I  try  to  tread  the  "narrow  way;" 

1  stumble  oft  I  know: 
I  miss — how  much ! — the  helping  hand 

Of  twenty  years  ago. 

Mary — (Mary  I  will  call  you — 

Tis  not  the  old-time  name) 
Sainted  Mary — blue-eyed  Mary — 

Are  you  in  heaven  the  same? 
Are  your  eyes  as  bright  and  beautiful, 

Your  cheeks  as  full  of  glow, 
As  when  the  school-boy  kissed  you,  May, 

Twenty  years  ago? 

How  we  swung  upon  the  grape-vine 

Down  by  the  Genesee; 
And  I  caught  the  speckled  trout  for  you. 

While  you  gathered  flowers  for  me: 
How  we  rambled  o'er  the  meadows 

With  brows  and  cheeks  aglow, 
And  hearts  like  God's  own  angels — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

How  our  young  hearts  grew  together 

Until  they  beat  as  one; 
Distrust  it  could  not  enter; 

Cares  and  fears  were  none. 
All  my  love  was  yours,  dear  Mary, 

'Twas  boyish  love,  I  know; 
But  I  ne'er  have  loved  as  then  I  loved — 

Twenty  years  ago. 


TWENTY    YEARS  AGO  291 

How  we  pictured  out  the  future — 

The  golden  coming  years, 
And  saw  no  cloud  in  all  our  sky, 

No  gloomy  mist  of  tears; 
But  ah — how  vain  are  human  hopes! 

The  angels  came — and  O — 
They  bore  my  darling  up  to  heaven — 

Twenty  years  ago. 

I  will  not  tell — I  cannot  tell — 

What  anguish  wrung  my  soul; 
But  a  silent  grief  is  on  my  heart 

Though  the  years  so  swiftly  roll; 
And  I  cannot  shake  it  off,  May, 

This  lingering  sense  of  woe, 
Though  I  try  to  drown  the  memory 

Of  twenty  years  ago. 

I  am  fighting  life's  stern  battle,  May, 

With  all  my  might  and  main; 
But  a  seat  by  you  and  mother  there 

Is  the  dearest  prize  to  gain; 
And  I  know  you  both  are  near  me, 

Whatever  winds  may  blow, 
For  I  feel  your  spirits  cheer  me 

Like  twenty  years  ago. 


LOVE   WILL    FIND. 


Seek  ye  the  fairest  lily  of  the  field, 

The  fairest  lotus  that  in  lakelet  lies, 
The  fairest  rose  that  ever  morn  revealed, 
And  Love  will  find  —  from  other  eyes  concealed  — 
A  fairer  flower  in  some  fair  woman's  eyes. 

List  ye  the  lark  that  warbles  to  the  morn, 

The  sweetest  note  Luscinia*  ever  sung, 
Or  trembling  lute  in  tune  with  silver  horn, 
And  Love  will  list — and  laugh  your  lute  to  scorn— 
A  sweeter  lute  in  some  fair  woman's  tongue. 

Seek  ye  the  dewy  perfume  seaward  blown 

From  fiowrering  orange  groves  to  passing  ships; 
Nay,  sip  the  nectared  dew  of  Helicon, 
And  Love  will  find  —  and  claim  it  all  his  own  — 
A  sweeter  dew  on  some  fair  woman's  lips. 

Seek  ye  a  couch  of  softest  eider-down, 

The  silken  floss  that  baby  birdling  warms, 
Or  shaded  moss  with  blushing  roses  strown, 
And  Love  will  find  —  when  they  are  all  alone  — 
A  softer  couch  in  some  fair  woman's'  arms. 

*The  nightingale. 

292 


WAR  POEMS. 


BATTLE  CRY. 

[April,  1861.] 

Spirit  of  Liberty, 

Wake  in  the  Land! 
Sons  of  our  Forefathers, 

Raise  the  right  hand! 
Burn  in  each  heart  anew 

Liberty's  fires; 
Wave  the  old  Flag  again, 

Flag  of  our  sires; 
Glow  all  thy  stars  again, 

Banner  of  Light! 
Float  o'er  us  forever, 

Emblem  of  might; 
God  for  our  Banner! 

God  for  the  Right! 

Minions  of  Tyranny, 

Tremble  and  kneel! 
The  sons  of  the  Pilgrims 

Are  sharpening  their  steel. 
Shades  of  our  Foreafthers, 

Witness  our  fright! 
Wave  o'er  us  forever, 

Emblem  of  might; 
God  for  our  Banner! 

God  for  the  Right! 
293 


HURRAH  FOR  THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

[May,  1861.] 

Come  then,  brave  men,  from  the  Land  of  Lakes 

With  steady  steps  and  cheers; 
Our  country  calls,  as  the  battle  breaks, 

On  the  Northwest  Pioneers. 
Let  the  eagle  scream,  and  the  bayonet  gleam! 

Hurrah  for  the  Volunteers! 


CHARGE  OF  "THE  BLACK-HORSE." 

[First  battle  of  Bull  Run.] 

Our  columns  are  broken,  defeated,  and  fled ; 

But  are  gathered,  a  few,  from  the  flying  and  dead 

Where  the  green  flag*  is  up  and  our  wounded  remain 

Imploring  for  water  and  groaning  in  pain. 

Ah,  the  blood-spattered  bosom,  the  shot-shattered  limb, 

The  hand-clutch  of  fear  as  the  vision  grows  dim, 

The  half-uttered  prayer  and  the  blood-fettered  breath, 

The  cold  marble  brow  and  the  calm  face  of  death ! 

Ah,  proud  were  these  forms  at  the  dawning  of  morn, 

When  they  sprang  to  the  call  of  the  shrill  bugle-horn: 

There  are  mothers  and  wives  that  await  them  afar; 

God  help  them! — Is  this  then  the  glory  of  war? 

*  Field-Hospital. 

294 


WAR   POEMS  295 

But  hark! — hear  the  cries  from  the  field  of  despair; 
"The  Black-Horse"  are  charging  the  fugitives  there; 
They  gallop  the  field  o'er  the  dying  and  dead, 
And  their  blades  with  the  blood  of  their  victims  are  red. 
The  cries  of  the  fallen  and  flying  are  vain; 
They  sabre  the  wounded  and  trample  the  slain; 
And  the  plumes  of  the  riders  wave  red  in  the  sun, 
As  they  stoop  for  the  stroke  and  the  murder  goes  on. 
They  halt  for  a  moment — they  form  and  they  stand; 
Then  with  sabers  aloft  they  ride  down  on  our  band 
Like  the  simoon  that  sweeps  o'er  Arabia's  sand. 
"Halt! — down  with  your  sabers! — the  dying  are  here! 
Let  the  foeman  respect  while  the  friend  sheds  a  tear." 
Nay;  the  merciless  butchers  were  thirsting  for  blood, 
And  mad  for  the  murder  still  onward  they  rode. 
" Stand  firm  and  be  ready!" — The  brave,  gallant  few 
Have  faced  to  the  foe,  and  their  rifles  are  true; 
Fire! — a  score  of  grim  riders  go  down  in  a  breath 
At  the  flash  of  the  guns — in  the  tempest  of  death! 
They  wheel,  and-  they  clutch  in  despair  at  the  mane ! 
They  reel  in  their  saddles  and  fall  to  the  plain! 

The  riderless  steeds,  wild  with  wounds  and  with  fear, 

Dash  away  o'er  the  field  in  unbridled  career; 

Their  stirrups  swing  loose  and  their  manes  are  all  gore 

From  the  mad  cavaliers  that  shall  ride  them  no  more. 

Of  the  hundred  so  bold  that  rode  down  on  us  there 

But  few  rode  away  with  the  tale  of  despair; 

Their  proud,  plumed  comrades  so  reckless,  alas, 

Slept  their  long,  dreamless  sleep  on  the  blood-spattered  grass. 


ONLY  A  PRIVATE  KILLED. 

The  soldier  wa«  Louis  Mitchell,  of  Co.  I,  1st  Minn.  Vols.,  killed  in  a.  skirmish,  near  Ball's  Bluff 

October  22,  1861.] 

"We've  had  a  brush,"  the  Captain  said, 

"And  Rebel  blood  we've  spilled; 
We  came  off  victors  with  the  loss 

Of  only  a  private  killed." 
11  Ah,"  said  the  orderly— "it  was  hot,"— 

Then  he  breathed  a  heavy  breath — 
"Poor  fellow! — he  was  badly  shot, 

Then  bayoneted  to  death." 

And  now  was  hushed  the  martial  din; 

The  saucy  foe  had  fled; 
They  brought  the  private's  body  in; 

I  went  to  see  the  dead; 
For  I  could  not  think  our  Rebel  foes — 

So  valiant  in  the  van — 
So  boastful  of  their  chivalry — 

Could  kill  a  wounded  man. 

A  musket  ball  had  pierced  his  thigh — 

A  frightful,  crushing  wound — 
And  then  with  savage  bayonets 

They  pinned  him  to  the  ground. 
One  deadly  thrust  drove  through  the  heart, 

Another  through  the  head; 
Three  times  they  stabbed  his  pulseless  breast 

When  he  lay  cold  and  dead. 
296 


WAR  POEMS  297 


His  hair  was  matted  with  his  gore. 

His  hands  were  clinched  with  might, 
As  if  he  still  his  musket  bore 

So  firmly  in  the  fight. 
He  had  grasped  the  foemen's  bayonets 

Their  murderous  thrusts  to  fend : 
They  raised  the  coat-cape  from  his  face, 

O  God ! — it  was  my  friend ! 

Think  what  a  shudder  chilled  my  heart! 

'Twas  but  the  day  before 
We  laughed  together  merrily, 

As  we  talked  of  days  of  yore. 
"How  happy  we  will  be,"  he  said, 

"When  the  war  is  o'er,  and  when 
With  victory's  song  and  victory's  tread 

We  all  march  home  again." 

Ah  little  he  dreamed — that  soldier  brave 

So  near  his  journey's  goal — 
How  soon  a  heavenly  messenger 

Would  claim  his  Christian  soul. 
But  he  fell  like  a  hero — fighting, 

And  hearts  with  grief  are  filled; 
And  honor  is  his, — tho'  the  Captain  says 

"Only  a  private  killed." 

I  knew  him  well, — he  was  my  friend; 

He  loved  our  land  and  laws, 
And  he  fell  a  blessed  martyr 

To  our  Country's  holy  cause; 
And  I  know  a  cottage  in  the  West 

Where  eyes  with  tears  are  filled 
As  they  read  the  cruel  telegram — 

"Only  a  private  killed." 


298  WAR  POEMS 

Comrades,  bury  him  under  the  oak, 

Wrapped  in  his  army-blue; 
He  is  done  with  the  battle's  din  and  smoke, 

With  drill  and  the  proud  review. 
And  the  time  will  come  ere  long,  perchance, 

When  our  blood  will  thus  be  spilled, 
And  what  care  we  if  the  Captain  say — 

"Only  a  private  killed." 

For  the  glorious  Old  Flag  beckons ! 

We  have  pledged  her  heart  and  hand, 
And  we'll  brave  even  death  to  rescue 

Our  dear  old  Fatherland. 
We  seek  not  praise — or  honor, 

Then — as  each  grave  is  filled — 
What  care  we  if  the  Captain  say — 

"Only  a  private  killed." 


DO  THEY  THINK  OF  US? 


Do  they  think  of  us,  say — in  the  far  distant  West — 
On  the  Prairies  of  Peace,  in  the  Valleys  of  Rest? 
On  the  long  dusty  march  when  the  suntide  is  hot, 
O  say,  are  their  sons  and  their  brothers  forgot  ? 
Are  our  names  on  their  lips,  is  our  comfort  their  care 
When  they  kneel  to  the  God  of  our  fathers  in  prayer? 
When  at  night  on  their  warm,  downy  pillows  they  lie, 
Wrapped  in  comfort  and  ease,  do  they  think  of  us,  say? 
When  the  rain  patters  down  on  the  roof  overhead, 
Do  they  think  of  the  camps  without  shelter  or  bed  ? 
Ah,  many  a  night  on  the  cold  ground  we've  lain — 
Chilled,  chilled  to  the  heart  by  the  merciless  rain, 
And  yet  there  stole  o'er  us  the  peace  of  the  blest, 
For  our  spirits  went  back  to  our  homes  in  the  West. 
Aye,  we  think  of  them,  and  it  sharpens  our  steel, 
When  the  battle-smoke  rolls  and  the  grim  cannon  peal, 
When  forward  we  rush  at  the  shrill  bugle's  call 
To  the  hail-storm  of  conflict  where  many  must  fall. 

When  night  settles  down  on  the  slaughter-piled  plain, 
And  the  dead  are  at  rest  and  the  wounded  in  pain, 
Do  they  think  of  us,  say,  in  the  far  distant  West — 
On  the  Prairies  of  Peace,  in  the  Valleys  of  Rest? 
Aye,  comrades,  we  know  that  our  darlings  are  there 
With  their  hearts  full  of  hope  and  their  souls  full  of  prayer, 
And  it  steadies  our  rifles — it  steels  every  breast — 
The  thought  of  our  loved  ones  at  home  in  the  West — 
On  the  Prairies  of  Peace,  in  the  Valleys  of  Rest. 

299 


A  MILLION  MORE. 

[August,  1862.] 

The  nation  calls  aloud  again, 
Our  Country  wounded  writhes  in  pain. 
Drop  scythe  and  sickle,  square  and  pen, 
And  load  your  rifles,  Northern  men: 
Let  a  million  bayonets  gleam  and  flash; 
A  thousand  cannon  peal  and  crash! 
Brothers  and  sons  have  gone  before; 
A  million  more! — a  million  more! 

Fire  and  sword! — aye,  sword  and  fire! 
Let  war  be  fierce  and  grim  and  dire; 
Your  path  be  marked  by  flame  and  smoke, 
And  tyrants'  bones  and  fetters  broke: 
Stay  not  for  foe's  uplifted  hand; 
Sheathe  not  the  sword ,  quench  not  the  brand 
Till  Freedom  reign  from  shore  to  shore, 
Or  might  'mid  ashes  smoke  and  gore. 

If  leader  stay  the  vengeance-rod, 
Let  him  beware  the  wrath  of  God ; 
The  maddened  millions  long  his  trust 
Will  crush  his  puny  bones  to  dust, 
And  all  the  law  to  rule  their  ire 
Will  be  the  law  of  blood  and  fire. 
Come,  then — the  shattered  ranks  implore — 
A  million  more — a  million  more ! 
300 


WAR  POEMS  301 

Form  and  file  and  file  and  form; 
This  war  is  but  God's  thunder-storm 
To  purify  our  cankered  land 
And  strike  the  fetter  from  the  hand. 
Forced  by  grim  fate  our  Chief  at  last 
Shall  blow  dear  Freedom's  bugle-blast; 
And  then  shall  rise  from  shore  to  shore 
Four  millions  more — four  millions  more.* 

*  There  were  four  millions  of  slaves  in  the  South  when  the  war  began. 


ON  READING  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  LETTER. 

Horace  Greeley,  of  date  Aug.  22,  1862 — "If  I  could  save  the  Union  without  freeing  any  slave, 

I  would  do  it,"  etc. 

Perish  the  power  that,  bowed  to  dust, 

Still  wields  a  tyrant's  rod — 
That  dares  not  even  then  be  just, 

And  leave  the  rest  with  God. 


THE  DYING  VETERAN. 


All-day-long  the  crash  of  cannon 

Shook  the  battle-covered  plain ; 
All-day-long  the  frenzied  foemen 

Dashed  against  our  lines  in  vain; 
All  the  field  was  piled  with  slaughter: 

Now  the  lurid  setting  sun 
Saw  our  foes  in  wild  disorder, 

And  the  bloody  day  was  won. 


302  WAR   POEMS 

Foremost  on  our  line  of  battle 

All-day-long  a  veteran  stood — 
Stalwart,  brawny,  grim  and  steady, 

Black  with  powder,  smeared  with  blood: 
Never  flinched  and  never  faltered 

In  the  deadliest  storm  of  lead, 
And  before  his  steady  rifle 

Lay  a  score  of  foemen  dead. 

Never  flinched  and  never  faltered 

Till  our  shout  of  victory  rose, 
Till  he  saw  defeat,  disaster, 

Overwhelm  our  daring  foes; 
Then  he  trembled,  then  he  tottered, 

Gasped  for  breath  and  dropped  his  gun, 
Staggered  from  the  ranks  and  prostrate 

Fell  on  the  field.     His  work  was  done. 

Silent  comrades  gathered  round  him, 

And  his  Captain  sadly  came, 
Bathed  his  quivering  lips  with  water, 

Took  his  hand  and  spoke  his  name; 
And  his  fellow  soldiers  softly 

On  his  knapsack  laid  his  head; 
Then  his  eyes  were  lit  with  luster, 

And  he  raised  his  hand  and  said: 

"Good-bye,  comrades;  farewell,  Captain! 

I  am  glad  the  day  is  won; 
I  am  mustered  out,  I  reckon — 

Never  mind — my  part  is  done. 
We  have  marched  and  fought  together 

Till  you  seem  like  brothers  all, 
But  I  hope  again  to  meet  you 

At  the  final  bugle-call. 


WAR  POEMS  303 


"  Captain,  write  and  tell  my  mother 

That  she  must  not  mourn  and  cry, 
For  I  never  flinched  in  battle, 

And  I  do  not  fear  to  die. 
You  may  add  a  word  for  Mary; 

Tell  her  I  was  ever  true. 
Mary  took  a  miff  one  Sunday, 

And  so  I  put  on  the  "blue." 

"And  I  know  she  has  repented, 

But  I  never  let  her  see 
How  it  cut — her  crusty  answer — 

When  she  turned  away  from  me. 
I  was  never  good  at  coaxing, 

And  I  couldn't  even  try; 
But  you  tell  her  I  forgive  her, 

And  she  must  not  mourn  and  cry." 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes  in  slumber, 

And  his  spirit  passed  away, 
And  his  comrades  spread  a  blanket 

On  his  cold  and  silent  clay. 
At  dawn  of  morn  they  buried  him, 

Wrapped  in  his  army-blue. 
On  the  bloody  field  of  Fair  Oaks 

Sleeps  the  soldier  tried  and  true. 


GRIERSON'S  RAID. 


Mount  to  horse — mount  to  horse; 

Forward,  Battalion! 
Gallop  the  gallant  force; 

Down  with  Rebellion ! 
Over  hill,  creek  and  plain 

Clatter  the  fearless — 
Dash  away — splash  away — 

Led  by  the  Peerless. 

Carbines  crack — foemen  fly 
Hither  and  thither; 

Under  the  death-fire 
They  falter  and  wither. 

Burn  the  bridge — tear  the  track- 
Down  with  Rebellion! 

Cut  the  wires — cut  the  wires ! 
Forward,  Battalion! 

Day  and  night — night- and  day, 

Gallop  the  fearless — 
Swimming  the  rivers'  floods — 

Led  by  the  Peerless; 
Depots  and  powder-trains 

Blazing  and  thundering, 
Masters  and  dusky  slaves 

Gazing  and  wondering. 
304 


WAR  POEMS  305 

Eight  hundred  miles  they  ride — 

Dauntless  Battalion — 
Down  through  the  Southern.  Land 

Mad  with  Rebellion. 
Into  our  lines  they  dash — 

Brave  Cavaliers — 
Greeted  and  hailed  with 

A  thunder  of  cheers. 


GETTYSBURG:    CHARGE  OP  THE  FIRST  MINNESOTA. 

Written  for  and  read  at  the  Camp  Fire  of  the  G.  A.  R.  Department  of  Minnesota;    National  En 
campment  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  at  Minneapolis,  June  22,  1884. 

Ready  and  ripe  for  the  harvest  lay  the  acres  of  golden  grain 

Waving  on  hillock  and  hillside  and  bending  along  the  plain. 

Ready  and  ripe  for  the  harvest  two  veteran  armies  lay 

Waiting  the  signal  of  battle  on  the  Gettysburg  hills  that  day. 

Sharp  rang  the  blast  of  the  bugles  calling  the  foe  to  the  fray, 

And  shrill  from  the  enemy's  cannon  the  demon  shells  shrieked  as  they 

flew. 

Crashed  and  rumbled  and  roared  our  batteries  ranged  on  the  hills, 
Rumbled  and  roared  at  the  front  the  bellowing  guns  of  the  foe, 
Swelling  the  chorus  of  hell  ever  louder  and  deadlier  still, 
And  shrill  o'er  the  roar  of  the  cannon  rose  the  yell  of  the  Rebels  below, 
As  they  charged  on  our  Third  Corps  advanced  and  crushed  in  the  lines 

at  a  blow. 

Leading  his  clamorous  legion,  flashing  his  saber  in  air, 

Forward  rode  furious  Longstreet  charging  on  Round  Top  there — 

Key  to  our  left  and  center — key  to  the  fate  of  the  field — 

Leading  his  yelling  Southrons  on  to  the  lion's  lair — 

And  our  Third  Corps  broken  and  scattered  and  only  one  battery  there. 


306  WAR  POEMS 

And  there, — its  only  support, — the  "Old  First"  regiment  stood — 
Only  a  handful  of  heroes  from  many  a  field  of  blood — 
Bearing  the  banner  of  Freedom  on  the  Gettysburg  hills  that  day. 
Down  at  the  marge  of  the  valley  our  broken  ranks  stagger  and  reel, 
Grimy  with  dust  and  with  powder,  wearied  and  panting  for  breath, 
Flinging  their  rifles  in  panic,  flying  the  hail-storm  of  death. 
Rumble  of  volley  on  volley  of  the  enemy  hard  on  the  rear, 
Yelling  their  wild,  mad  triumph,  thundering  cheer  upon  cheer, 
Dotting  the  slope  with  slaughter  and  sweeping  the  field  with  fear. 

Drowned  is  the  blare  of  the  bugle,  lost  is  the  bray  of  the  drum — 
Yelling,  defiant,  victorious,  column  on  column  they  come. 
"The  Old  First" — only  a  handful — there  in  the  gap  of  our  lines, 
Holding  the  perilous  breach  where  the  fate  of  the  battle  inclines, 
Only  a  handful  are  they — column  on  column  the  foe — 
Flaunting  exultant  their  colors — column  on  column  they  come. 
Thunder  of  cheers  on  the  right ! — dashing  down  on  his  stalwart  bay — 
Spurring  his  panting  charger  till  his  foaming  flanks  dripped  blood — 
Hancock — the  hero — the  lion — rode  down  where  their  Colonel  stood. 
?' Charge  those  lines!''  thundered  Hancock;   Colvill  shouted  the  charge 

to  his  men: 
(l Charge — Double-quick, — Minnesota!" — They   sprang   to   the  charge 

and  away 
Like  a  fierce  pack  of  hunger-mad  wolves  that  pant  for  the  blood  of  the 

prey. 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  and  two — all  that  were  there  of  them  then — 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  and  two  fearless,  unfaltering  men 

Dashed  at  a  run  for  the  enemy,  sprang  to  the  charge  with  a  yell: 

On  them  the  batteries  thundered  canister,  grape-shot  and  shell: 

Never  a  man  of  them  faltered,  but  many  a  comrade  fell. 

"Charge — double-quick,  Minnesota!" — Like  panthers  they  sprang  at 

their  foes; 

Grim  gaps  of  death  in  their  ranks,  but  ever  the  brave  ranks  close: 
Down  went  their  sergeant  and  colors — defiant  their  colors  arose! 


WAR  POEMS  307 

"Fire!" — At  the  flash  of  their  rifles  grim  gaps  in  the  ranks  of  their  foes ! 
"Forward,  my  First  Minnesota!"  their  brave  Colonel  cried  as  he  fell — 
Gashed  and  shattered  and  mangled — "Forward!"  he  cried  as  hejfell. 
Over  him  mangled  and  bleeding  frenzied  they  sprang  to  the  fight, 
Over  him  mangled  and  bleeding  they  sprang  to  the  jaws  of  hell. 
Flashed  in  their  faces  the  rifles — roared  on  the  left  and  the  right; 
The  foe  swarmed  around  them  by  thousands — they  fought  them  with 

desperate  might. 

Five  times  their  colors  went  down — five  times  their  colors  arose, 
Shot-tattered  and  torn  but  defiant,  and  flapped  in  the  face  of  their  foes. 

Hold  them?     They  held  them  at  bay,  as  a  bear  holds  the  hounds  on 

his  track, 
Steel  to  steel,  banner  to  banner,  they  met  them  and  staggered  them 

back. 

Desperate,  frenzied,  bewildered,  the  enemy  fired  on  their  own; 
Like  reeds  in  the  whirl  of  the  cyclone  columns  and  colors  went  down. 
Banner  of  stars  on  the  right !     Hurrah ! — It's  the  gallant  "  Nineteenth!" 
With  a  yell  and  a  rush  and  a  roar  the  Old  Bay  State  heroes  they  come! 
Thunder  of  guns  on  the  left !  'Tis  our  own  Gibbon's  cannon  that  boom! 
Shrapnel  and  grape-shot  and  cannister  crash  like  the  cracking  of  doom. 
Baffled,  bewildered  and  broken,  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  yield; 
Panic-struck,  routed  and  shattered  they  fly  from  the  fate  of  the  field- 

Hold  them?  They  held  them  at  bay  as  a  bear  holds  the  hounds  on  his 

track ; 
Steel  to  steel,  banner  to  banner,  they  met  them  and  staggered  them 

back; 

Two  hundred  and  sixty  and  two,  they  held  the  mad  thousands  at  bay, 
Met  them  and  baffled  and  broke  them,  turning  the  tide  of  the  day : 
Two  hundred  and  sixty  and  two  when  the  sun  hung  low  in  heaven, 
But  ah!   when  the  stars  rode  over  they  numbered  but  forty-seven. 
Dead  on  the  field  or  wounded  the  rest  of  the  "Old  First"  lay; 
Never  a  man  of  them  faltered  or  flinched  in  the  fire  of  the  fray, 
For  they  bore  the  banner  of  Freedom  on  the  Gettysburg  hills  that  day. 


308  WAR   POEMS 

Honor  our  fallen  comrades — cover  their  graves  with  flowers, 

For  they  fought  and  fell  like  Spartans  for  this  glorious  land  of  ours: 

They  fell,  but  they  fell  victorious,  for  the  Rebel  ranks  were  riven, 

And  over  our  land  united — one  nation  from  sea  to  sea — 

Over  the  grave  of  Treason,  over  millions  of  men  made  free, 

Triumphant  the  flag  of  our  fathers  waves  in  the  winds  of  heaven — • 

Red  with  the  blood  of  her  heroes  she  waves  in  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Honor  our  fallen  comrades — cover  their  graves  with  flowers, 
For  they  fought  and  fell  like  Spartans  for  this  glorious  land  of  ours; 
And  oft  shall  our  children's  children  garland  their  graves  and  say — 
"They  bore  the  banner  of  Freedom  on  the  Gettysburg  hills  that  day." 


THE  OLD  FLAG. 

Have  ye  heard  of  Fort  Donelson's  desperate  fight, 
Where  the  giant  Northwest  bared  his  arm  for  the  right, 
Where  thousands  so  bravely  went  down  in  the  slaughter, 
And  the  blood  of  the  West  flowed  as  freely  as  water; 
Where  the  Rebel  Flag  fell  and  our  banner  arose 
O'er  an  army  of  captured  and  suppliant  foes? 
See! — torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder, 
The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there  prouder  and  prouder. 

Heard  ye  of  Shiloh,  where  fierce  Beauregard 

Overwhelmed  us  with  numbers  and  pressed  us  so  hard, 

Till  Grant's  blazing  batteries  roared  in  our  aid, 

And  the  tide  of  defeat  and  disaster  was  staid — 

Where  like  grain-sheaves  the  slaughtered  were  piled  on  the  plain, 

And  the  brave  rebel  Johnston  went  down  with  the  slain? 

See ! — torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder, 

The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there  prouder  and  prouder. 


WAR   POEMS  309 

Heard  ye  the  cannon-roar  down  by  Stone  River? 
Saw  ye  the  bleeding  braves  stagger  and  quiver? 
Heard  ye  the  shout  and  the  roar  and  the  rattle? 
And  saw  ye  the  desperate  surging  of  battle? 
Volley  on  volley  and  steel  upon  steel — 
Breast  unto  breast — how  they  lunge  and  they  reel! 
See ! — torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder, 
The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there  prouder  and  prouder. 

Heard  ye  from  Vicksburg — the  Southern  Gibraltar, 
Where  the  hands  of  our  foemen  built  tyranny's  altar, 
Where  their  hosts  are  walled  in  by  a  cordon  of  braves, 
And  the  pits  they  have  dug  for  defense  are  their  graves, 
Where  the  red  bombs  were  bursting  and  hissing  the  shot, 
Where  the  mine  thundered  death  and  the  charge  followed  hot  ? 
Ho ! — torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder, 
The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there  prouder  and  prouder. 

Heard  ye  from  Gettysburg? — Glory  to  God! 

Bare  your  heads,  O  ye  Freemen,  and  kneel  on  the  sod! 

Praise  the  Lord ! — praise  the  Lord ! — it  is  done ! — it  is  done ! 

The  battle  is  fought  and  the  victory  won! 

They  first  took  the  sword,  and  they  fall  by  the  sword: 

They  are  scattered  and  crushed  by  the  hand  of  the  Lord ! 

Aye — torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder, 

The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there  prouder  and  prouder. 

July  4  and  5,  1863. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE  OF  GETTYSBURG 

[July,  1863.J 

Float  in  the  winds  of  heaven,  O  tattered  Flag! 
Emblem  of  hope  to  all  the  misruled  world : 
Thy  field  of  golden  stars  is  rent  and  red — 
Dyed  in  the  blood  of  brothers  madly  spilled 
By  brother-hands  upon  the  mother-soil. 
O  fatal  Upas  of  the  savage  Nile,* 
Transplanted  hither — rooted — multiplied — 
Watered  with  bitter  tears  and  sending  forth 
Thy  venom-vapors  till  the  land  is  mad, 
Thy  day  is  done.     A  million  blades  are  swung 
To  lay  thy  jungles  open  to  the  sun; 
A  million  torches  fire  thy  blasted  boles; 
A  million  hands  shall  drag  thy  fibers  out 
And  feed  the  fires  till  every  root  and  branch 
Lie  in  dead  ashes.     From  the  blackened  soil, 
Enriched  and  moistened  with  fraternal  blood, 
Beside  the  palm  shall  spring  the  olive-tree, 
And  every  breeze  shall  waft  the  happy  song 
Of  Freedom  crowned  with  olive-twigs  and  flowers. 

Yea,  Patriot-Flag  of  our  old  patriot-sires, 
Honored — victorious  on  so  many  fields 
Where  side  by  side  for  Freedom's  mother-land 
Her  Southern  sons  and  Northern  fighting  fell, 

*African  slavery. 

310 


WAR  POEMS  311 

And  side  by  side  in  glorious  graves  repose, 

I  see  the  dawn  of  glory  grander  still, 

When  hand  in  hand  upon  this  battle-field 

The  blue-eyed  maidens  of  the  Merrimac 

With  dewy  roses  from  the  Granite  Hills, 

And  dark-eyed  daughters  from  the  land  of  palms 

With  orange-blossoms  from  the  broad  St.  Johns, 

In  solemn  concert  singing  as  they  go, 

Will  strew  the  graves  of  these  fraternal  dead. 

The  day  of  triumph  comes,  O  blood-stained  Flag! 

Washed  clean,  and  lustrous  in  the  morning  light 

Of  a  new  era,  thou  shalt  float  again 

In  more  than  pristine  glory  o'er  the  land 

Peace-blest  and  re-united.     On  the  seas 

Thou  shalt  be  honored  to  the  farthest  isle. 

The  oppressed  of  foreign  lands  shall  flock  the  shores 

To  look  upon  and  bless  thee.     Mothers  shall  lift 

Their  infants  to  behold  thee  as  a  star 

New-born  in  heaven  to  light  the  darksome  world. 

The  children  weeping  round  the  desolate, 

Sore-stricken  mother  in  the  saddened  home 

Whereto  the  father  shall  no  more  return, 

In  future  years  will  proudly  boast  the  blood 

Of  him  who  bravely  fell  defending  thee. 

And  these  misguided  brothers  who  would  tear 

Thy  starry  field  asunder  and  would  trail 

Their  own  proud  flag  and  history  in  the  dust, 

Ere  many  years  will  bless  thee,  dear  old  Flag, 

That  thou  didst  triumph  even  over  them. 

Aye,  even  they  with  patriotic  hearts 

Will  see  the  glory  thou  shalt  shortly  wear, 

And  new-born  stars  swing  in  upon  thy  field 

In  lustrous  clusters.     Come,  O  glorious  day 

Of  Freedom  crowned  with  Peace.     God's  will  be  done! 

God's  will  is — "On  earth  peace — good-will  towards  men." 


312  WAR  POEMS 

The  chains  all  broken  and  the  bond  all  free, 
O  may  this  nation  learn  to  war  no  more; 
Yea,  into  plow-shares  may  these  brothers  beat 
Their  swords,  and  into  priming-hooks  their  spears, 
Clasp  hands  again,  and  plant  these  battle-fields 
With  golden  corn  and  purple-clustered  vines, 
And  side  by  side  re-build  the  broken  walls — 
Joined  and  cemented  as  one  solid  stone 
With  patriot-love  and  Christ's  sweet  charity. 


CHARGE  OF  FREMONT'S  BODY-GUARD. 


On  they  ride — on  they  ride — 

Only  Three  Hundred- 
Ride  the  bold  Body  Guard, 

From  the  "Prairie  Scouts"  sundered. 
Two  thousand  Southron  men, 

Ambushed  on  either  side, 

The  signal  of  slaughter  bide: 

Ah — the  false  farmer  guide 

Has  led  them  astray  and  lied! 
How  can  they  pass  the  woods? 

On  they  ride — on  they  ride — 
Fearlessly,  readily, 
Silently,  steadily 

Ride  the  bold  Body  Guard 
Led  by  Zagonyi. 

Up  leap  the  Southrons  there; 
Loud  breaks  the  battle-blare; 

"Draw  sabers— follow  me!'' 
Shouts  the  brave  Captain; 

"  Union  and  Liberty!'' 


WAR  POEMS  313 

Thunders  the  Captain. 
Three  hundred  sabres  flash, 
Three  hundred  Guardsmen  dash 
On  to  the  fierce  attack: 
Down  the  hill — down  the  hill 

Into  the  cul-de-sac 

Plunge  the  Three  Hundred. 
Yell  the  mad  ambushed  pack, 
Two  thousand  rifles  crack 

At  the  Three  Hundred. 

Dire  is  the  death  they  deal; 
Gleams  the  steel — volleys  peal — 
Horses  plunge — riders  reel; 
Sabers  and  bayonets  clash; 
Guns  in  their  faces  flash; 
Blue  coats  are  spattered  red ; 
Fifty  brave  Guards  are  dead; 
Zagonyi  is  still  ahead, 
Flashing  his  sword  in  air: 
''Steady  men — steady  there! 
Forward,  Battalion!" 

On  they  plunge — on  they  lunge 
Through  the  dread  gauntlet; 

Death  gurgles  in  the  gash 

Of  furious-dealt  saber-slash; 

Over  them  the  volleys  crash 
Through  the  trees  like  a  whirlwind. 

They  pass  through  the  fire  of  death; 
Pant  riders  and  steeds  for  breath : 
" Halt!"  cried  the  Captain. 
Then  he  looked  up  the  hill 
Blazing  with  volleys  still: 
ltHell!"— cried  the  Captain. 


3U  WAR  POEMS 


Under  the  storm  of  lead, 

Like  bees  buzzing  overhead, 

He  re-formed  the  broken  lines. 

Then  the  brave  Captain  said: 

"Guardsmen,  avenge  our  dead — Charge!11- 
To  the  bugle's  shrill 

Up  the  hill— up  the  hill- 
Gallop  the  Guardsmen. 

Dealing  swift  saber-stroke 

Into  the  hell  they  broke; 

Into  the  fire  and  smoke 
Galloped  the  Guardsmen. 

See  mad  Zagonyi  there 
Hatless — with  flying  hair, 
Flashing  his  saber  bare ! 
On  they  ride — on  they  ride. 
Cannon  crash, 
Volleys  flash, 
Sabers  and  rifles  clash; 
On  they  ride — on  they  dash, 

Following  Zagonyi 
Up  through  that  hell  again. 
Horses  plunge — riders  lunge 

Heavily  forward: 
Hand  to  hand  fight  and  die 

Infantry,  cavalry; 
Grappled  and  mixed  they  lie — 
Infantry,  cavalry. 

Hurrah! — the  foemen  fly! 

Bravo!— Three  Hundred! 
11  Forward,  and  follow  me! ' ' 

Shouted  the  Captain; 

"Union  and  Liberty!" 

All  the  Guards  thundered 


WAR  POEMS  315 


With  mad  hearts  and  sabers  stout 
Into  the  Rebel-rout 

Gallop  the  Guardsmen, 
Thundering  their  cry  again, 
Cleaving  the  heads  in  twain, 
Piling  the  heaps  of  slain 

Sabered  and  sundered. 

Glorious  the  charge  they  made — 
Victorious  the  charge  they  made — 
The  gallant  Three  Hundred! 

The  Crown-Poet  laurel-paid 
Sang  of  "The  Light  Brigade"— 

"The  Noble  Six  Hundred," 
And  "The  wild  charge  they  made" 

When  "Some  one  had  blundered; 
And  half  the  world  listened 
And  half  the  world  wondered. 
After  the  British  Bard 
I  sing  of  the  Body-Guard — 
The  heroes  that  fought  so  hard 

Where  nobody  blundered. 
Hail,  brave  Zagonyi — Hail! 
All  hail,  the  Body  Guard— 
The  glorious — 
The  victorious — 
The  invincible  Three  Hundred! 
1862. 


NEW-YEARS  ADDRESS— JANUARY  1,   1868. 

[Written  for  the  S*.  Paul  Pioneer.] 

Good  morning — good  morning — a  happy  new  year ! 

We  greet  you,  kind  friends  of  the  old  Pioneer; 

Hope  your  coffee  is  good  and  your  eggs  are  well  done, 

And  you're  happy  as  clams  in  the  sand  and  the  sun. 

The  old  year's  a  shadow — a  shade  of  the  past; 

It  is  gone  with  its  trials  and  triumphs  so  vast — 

With  its  shouts  of  the  brave  and  its  heaps  of  the  slain — 

With  its  joys  and  its  tears — with  its  pleasure  and  pain, — - 

Gone — and  it  cometh — no,  never  again. 

And  as  we  look  forth  on  the  future  so  fair 

Let  us  brush  from  the  picture  the  visage  of  care; 

The  error,  the  folly,  the  frown  and  the  tear — 

Drop  them  all  at  the  grave  of  the  silent  old  year. 

Has  the  heart  been  oppressed  with  a  burden  of  woe  ? 

Has  the  spirit  been  cowed  by  a  merciless  blow? 

Has  the  tongue  of  the  brave  or  the  heart  of  the  fair 

Prayed  to  God  and  received  no  response  to  its  prayer? 

Look  up! — 'twas  a  shadow — the  morning  is  here; 

A  Happy  New  Year! — Aye,  a  Happy  New  Year! 

Yet  stay  for  a  moment.     We  cannot  forget 
The  fields  where  the  true  and  the  traitor  have  met; 
WThen  the  old  year  came  in  we  were  trembling  with  fear 
Lest  Freedom  should  fall  in  her  glorious  career; 
And  the  roar  of  the  conflict  was  loud  o'er  the  land 
Where  the  Rebel-flag  waved  in  a  mad  brother's  hand; 

316 


WAR  POEMS  317 

But  the  God  of  the  Just  led  the  hosts  of  the  Free, 
And  Victory  marched  from  the  north  to  the  sea. 
Behold — where  the  conflict  was  doubtful  and  dire — 
There — on  house-top  and  hill-top,  on  fortress  ar*d  spire — • 
Though  torn  by  the  shot  and  begrimed  by  the  powder — 
The  Old  Flag  is  waving  there — higher  and  prouder. 

God  bless  the  brave  soldiers  that  followed  that  flag 

Through  river  and  swamp,  over  mountain  and  crag — 

On  the  wild  charge  triumphant — the  sullen  retreat — • 

On  fields  spread  with  victory  or  piled  with  defeat; 

God  bless  their  true  hearts  for  they  stood  like  a  wall, 

And  saved  us  our  Country  and  saved  us  our  all. 

But  many  a  mother  and  many  a  daughter 

Weep,  alas,  for  the  brave  that  went  down  in  the  slaughter. 

Pile  the  monuments  high — on  the  hill-top  and  plain 

To  the  glorious  sons  'neath  the  old  banner  slain, 

And  over  the  land  from  the  sea  to  the  sea 

Pile  their  monuments  high  in  the  hearts  of  the  Free. 

Heaven  bless  the  brave  souls  that  are  spared  to  return 

Where  the  lamp  in  the  window  ceased  never  to  burn — 

Where  the  vacant  chair  stood  at  the  desolate  hearth 

Since  the  son  shouldered  arms  or  the  father  went  forth. 

"Peace! — Peace!" — was  the  shout; — at  the  jubilant  word 

Wives  and  mothers  went  down  on  their  knees  to  the  Lord! 

Methinks  I  can  see,  through  the  vista  of  years — 
From  the  memories  of  old  such  a  vision  appears — 
A  gray-haired  old  veteran  in  arm-chair  at  ease, 
With  his  grandchildren  clustered  intent  at  his  knees, 
Recounting  his  deeds  with  an  eloquent  tongue, 
And  a  fire  that  enkindles  the  hearts  of  the  young; 
How  he  followed  the  Flag  from  the  first  to  the  last — 
On  the  long,  weary  march,  in  the  battle's  hot  blast; 
How  he  marched  under  Sherman  from  center  to  sea, 


318  WAR  POEMS 

Or  fought  under  Grant  in  his  battles  with  Lee; 

And  the  old  fire  comes  back  to  his  eye  as  of  yore, 

And  his  iron  hand  clutches  his  musket  once  more, 

As  of  old  on  the  battle-field  ghastly  and  red, 

When  he  sprang  to  the  charge  o'er  the  dying  and  dead; 

And  the  eyes  of  his  listeners  are  gleaming  with  fire, 

As  he  points  to  that  Flag  floating  high  on  the  spire. 

Heaven  bless  the  new  year  that  is  now  ushered  in; 
May  the  Rebels  repent  of  their  folly  and  sin, 
Depart  from  their  idol,  extend  the  right  hand, 
And  pledge  that  the  Union  forever  shall  stand. 
May  they  see  that  the  rending  of  fetter  and  chain 
Is  their  triumph  as  well — their  unspeakable  gain; 
That  the  Union  dissevered  and  weltering  in  blood 
Could  yield  them  no  profit  and  bode  them  no  good. 
'Tis  human  to  err  and  divine  to  forgive ; 
Let  us  walk  after  Christ — bid  our  poor  brothers  live, 
And  come  back  to  the  fold  of  the  Union  once  more, 
And  we'll  do  as  the  prodigal's  father  of  yore — 
Kill  the  well-fatted  calf — (but  we'll  not  do  it  twice) 
And  invite  them  to  dinner — and  give  them  a  slice. 

There's  old  Johnny  Bull — what  a  terrible  groan 
Escapes  when  he  thinks  of  his  big  "  Rebel  Loan" — 
How  the  money  went  out  with  a  nod  and  a  grin, 
But  the  cotton — the  cotton — it  didn't  come  in. 
Then  he  thinks  of  diplomacy — Mason-Slidell, 
And  he  wishes  that  both  had  been  frying  in  hell, 
For  he  got  such  a  rap  from  our  little  Bill  Seward 
That  the  sore  nose  he  blows  is  right  hard  to  be  cured. 
And  then  the  steam  pirates  he  built  and  equipped, 
And  boasted,  you  know,  that  they  couldn't  be  whipped; 
But  alas  for  his  boast — Johnny  Bull  "caught  a  Tartar," 
And  now  like  a  calf  he  is  bawling  for  quarter. 


WAR  POEMS  319 

Yes,  bluff  Johnny  Bull  will  be  tame  as  a  yearling, 

Beg  pardon  and  humbly  "come  down"  with  his  sterling. 

There's  Monsieur  /' Escamoteur*  over  in  France; 

He  has  had  a  clear  field  and  a  gay  country  dance 

Down  there  in  Mexico — playing  his  tricks 

While  we  had  a  family  "discussion  wid  sticks"; 

But  the  game  is  played  out;   don't  you  see  it's  so  handy 

For  Grant  and  his  boys  to  march  over  the  Grande. 

He  twists  his  waxed  moustache  and  looks  very  blue, 

And  he  says  to  himself,  (what  he  wouldn't  to  you) 

"Py  tarn — dair's  mon  poor  leetle  chappie — Dutch  Max! 

Cornes  du  Diable^ — 'e'll  'ave  to  make  tracks 

Or  ve'll  'ave  all  dem  tarn  Yankee  poys  on  our  packs." 

Monsieur  I'Empereur,  if  your  Max  can  get  out 
With  the  hair  of  his  head  on — he'd  better,  no  doubt. 
If  you'll  not  take  it  hard,  here's  a  bit  of  advice — 
It  is  dangerous  for  big  pigs  to  dance  on  the  ice ; 
They  sometimes  slip  up  and  they  sometimes  slip  in, 
And  the  ice  you  are  on  is  exceedingly  thin. 
You're  au  fait,  I'll  admit,  at  a  sharp  game  of  chance, 
But  the  Devil  himself  couldn't  always  beat  France. 
Remember  the  fate  of  your  uncle  of  yore, 
Tread  lightly,  and  keep  very  close  to  the  shore. 

The  Giant  Republic — its  future  how  vast! 

Now,  freed  from  the  follies  and  sins  of  the  past, 

It  will  tower  to  the  zenith;   the  ice-covered  sea 

And  Darien  shall  bound-mark  the  Land  of  the  Free. 

Behold  how  the  landless,  the  poor  and  oppressed, 

Flock  in  on  our  shores  from  the  East  and  the  West! 

Let  them  come — bid  them  come — we  have  plenty  of  room; 

*The  Juggler. 

tHorns  of  the  Devil! — equivalent  to  the  exclamation — The  Devil! 


320  WAR  POEMS 

Our  forests  shall  echo,  our  prairies  shall  bloom; 

The  iron  horse,  puffing  his  cloud-breath  of  steam, 

Shall  course  every  valley  and  leap  every  stream; 

New  cities  shall  rise  with  a  magic  untold, 

While  our  mines  yield  their  treasures  of  silver  and  gold, 

And  prosperous,  united  and  happy,  we'll  climb 

Up  the  mountain  of  Fame  till  the  end  of  Old  Time — 

Which,  as  I  figure  up,  is  a  century  hence: 

Then  we'll  all  go  abroad  without  any  expense; 

We'll  capture  a  comet — the  smart  Yankee  race 

Will  ride  on  his  tail  through  the  kingdom  of  Space, 

Tack  their  telegraph  wires  to  Uranus  and  Mars; 

Yea,  carry  their  arts  to  the  ultimate  stars, 

And  flaunt  the  Old  Flag  at  the  worlds  as  they  pass, 

And  astonish  the  Devil  himself  with — their  "brass." 

And  now,  "Gentle  Readers,"  I'll  bid  you  farewell; 
I  hope  this  fine  poem  will  please  you — and  sell. 
You'll  ne'er  lack  a  friend  if  you  ne'er  lack  a  dime; 
May  you  never  grow  old  till  the  end  of  Old  Time ; 
May  you  never  be  cursed  with  an  itching  for  rhyme ; 
For  in  spite  of  your  physic,  in  spite  of  your  plaster, 
The  rash  will  break  out  till  you  go  to  disaster, — 
Which  you  plainly  can  see  is  the  case  with  my  Muse, 
For  she  cackles  away  though  she's  said  her  adieu's. 

Dear  Ladies,  though  last  to  receive  my  oblation, 

And  last  in  the  list  of  Mosaic  creation, 

The  last  is  the  best,  and  the  last  shall  be  first. 

Through  Eve,  sayeth  Moses,  old  Adam  was  cursed; 

But  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  Moses,  that  Adam 

Sinned  and  fell  through  the  gentle  persuasion  of  madam. 

The  victim,  no  doubt,  of  Egyptian  flirtation, 

You  mistook  your  chagrin  for  divine  inspiration, 

And  condemned  all  the  sex  without  proof  or  probation, 


WAR   POEMS  321 

As  we  rhymesters  mistake  the  moonbeams  that  elate  us 
For  flashes  of  wit  or  the  holy  afflatus, 
And  imagine  we  hear  the  applause  of  a  nation, — 
But  all  honest  men  who  are  married  and  blest 
Will  agree  that  the  last  work  of  God  is  the  best. 
And  now  to  you  all — whether  married  or  single — 
Whether  sheltered  by  slate,  or  by  "shake,"  or  by  shingle — 
God  bless  you  with  peace  and  with  bountiful  cheer, 
Happy  homes,  happy  hearts — and  a  happy  New  Year  I 

P.  S. — If  you  wish  all  these  blessings,  'tis  clear 

You  should  send  in  your  "stamps"  for  the  old  Pioneer. 


A  MESSAGE  TO  SURVIVING  COMRADES 

OF  THE  "FIRST  MINNESOTA,"  AT  THEIR  41sT  ANNUAL  RBUNIOK, 
JUNE  12,  1907 

Hail,  Brothers,  Hail!— The  setting  sun 
Sinks  in  the  sea  whereby  I  dwell. 
My  day  is  done — my  race  is  run, 
And  so  is  yours — and  it  is  well. 
Flushed  with  the  fire  and  pride  of  youth 
You  rallied  to  our  country's  call, 
And  dared  the  death  for  right  and  truth, 
And  did  your  duty — that  was  all. 

In  dreary  camp,  on  weary  tramp, 
With  "forty  rounds"  and  blistered  feet, 
Through  thicket,  flood,  and  fever-fen; 
On  picket  in  the  rain  and  sleet, 
In  battle  won — in  sore  defeat, 
On  rear-guard  fighting  in  retreat, 
You  did  your  duty; — ye  were  men. 


322  WAR  POEMS 

The  old  Flag  fluttered  in  the  van; 
Like  men  you  followed  where  she  led: 
Where  veterans  broke  and  thousands  bled 
You  faltered,  Comrades? — Not  a  man! 
Nay — ye  were  "made  of  sterner  stuff  " 
And  fashioned  on  the  far  frontier, 
Where  savage  war-whoops  smote  the  ear: 
And  ye  were  schooled  to  smile  at  fear 
When  cowards  skulked  or  stood  aloof. 

Where  is  the  land  ye  battled  for, 
And  laid  your  brave  hearts  at  her  feet? 
Is  this  the  land? — where  Croesus  robs 
With  felon  Trusts  the  helpless  poor, 
And  dogs  the  farmer  to  his  door. 
Is  this  the  land? — where  brutal  mobs 
Brick-bat  our  daughters  on  the  cars; 
Where  wolfish  "Unions"  snarl  and  growl 
And  send  their  man-wolves  forth  to  prowl 
And  murder  freemen  on  the  street. 
O  veteran  Heroes,  hide  your  scars, 
And  trail  your  colors  in  the  mud — 
Shot-tattered  banner  with  its  stars 
And  staff  bespattered  with  your  blood ! 

Was  it  for  this  ye  left  the  plow 
A-rusting  in  the  furrow,  men? 
Was  it  for  this  ye  left  the  ax 
Bit-buried  in  the  northern  pine? 
Was  it  for  this  ye  flung  the  pen, 
Or  dropped  the  sickle  in  the  wheat, 
With  throbbing  hearts  and  flying  feet, 
To  rally  on  the  battle-line  ? 
Was  it  for  this  your  weeping  wife 
Or  blushing  sweetheart  bade  you  go 
To  meet  with  steel  the  Rebel  foe 


WAR  POEMS 

And  save  the  bleeding  Nation's  life? 
Was  it  for  this,  with  clenched  teeth, 
For  two  grim  years  ye  faced  defeat 
Where  many  a  hero-comrade  fell? 
Was  it  for  this,  at  Gettysburg, 
With  leveled  steel  and  bated  breath 
Ye  rushed  into  the  jaws  of  hell? 

God  help  us! — we  are  dying  men; 
God  help  our  children  and  their  sons ! 
We  see  the  cycle  as  it  runs 
Dim-glimmering  in  the  murk  and  mist; 
We  cannot  read  the  scroll  of  Fate; 
We  cannot  scan  the  Ultimate; 
It  lies  beyond  all  mortal  ken. 
We  only  know  that  we  are  men — 
Midge-midgets  on  this  grain  of  sand 
That  rolls  around  our  lesser  sun 
Where  myriad  suns  obey  His  hand. 
We  cannot  fathom  Time  or  Space, 
Or  when  or  where  or  how  begun 
The  spark  of  life  at  His  com  nand; 
Nor  pierce  the  cloud  that  veils  His  face. 
Blind  in  the  midst  we  grops  and  wait; 
We  only  know  this  midget,  man, 
May  never  trace  the  mighty  plan 
From  Chaos  to  the  Ultimate. 
But  God  is  there, — and  we  may  hope, 
While  tottering  in  the  gloom  we  grope, 
That,  struggling  from  the  murk  and  mire- 
Yea,  out  of  rapine,  blood  and  fire — 
Will  rise  a  higher,  holier  state. 

As  in  the  days  when  on  the  field, 
With  hero-hearts  and  patriot  zeal, 


324  WAR  POEMS 

Ye  stood  a  blazing  hedge  of  steel, 
The  God  of  Hosts  his  arm  revealed 
With  sword  and  buckler  from  the  sky, 
And  smote  your  foemen,  hip  and  thigh, 
Before  the  roar  of  battle  ceased ; 
So  may  He  heed  our  children's  cry 
Ere  yet  the  doom  of  death  is  sealed, 
And  cover  them  with  sword  and  shield. 
And  smite  the  hydra-headed  Beast. 

So  let  us  pass  with  hope  and  trust, 
And  mingle  with  our  mother-dust. 
Our  day  is  done, — our  setting  sun 
Sinks  in  the  vast,  eternal  sea: 
So  let  us  pass  with  weary  feet, — 
So  let  us  pass  in  peace,  and  greet 
Our  comrades  at  the  reveille — 
Taps! 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


MRS.  MCNAIR. 

Misc«  stultitiant  consiliis  brevern. — H  or  act.      Odgs,  Book  4. 

Mrs.  McNair 
Was  tall  and  fair; 
Mrs.  McNair  was  slim; 
She  had  flashing  black  eyes  and  raven  hair; 
But  a  very  remarkably  modest  air; 
And  her  only  care  was  for  Mr.  McNair; 
She  was  exceedingly  fond  of  him. 

He  sold  "notions"  and  lace 

With  wonderful  grace, 

And  kept  everything  neatly  displayed  in  its  place: 
The  red,  curly  hair  on  his  head  and  his  face 

He  always  persisted 

Should  be  trimmed  and  twisted; 
He  was  the  sleekest  young  husband  that  ever  existed. 

Precisely  at  four 

He  would  leave  his  store; 
And  Mr.  McNair  with  his  modest  bride 
Seated  snugly  and  lovingly  by  his  side, 

On  the  rural  Broadway, 

Every  pleasant  day, 
In  his  spick-span  carriage  would  rattle  away. 

Though  it  must  be  allowed 
The  lady  was  proud, 
325 


326  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

She'd  have  no  maid  about  her  the  dear  lady  vowed: 

So  for  Mr.  McNair 

The  wear  and  the  fare 
She  made  it  a  care  of  her  own  to  prepare. 
I  think  I  may  guess,  being  married  myself, 
That  the  cause  was  not  solely  the  saving  of  pelf. 

As  for  her,  I'll  declare, 

Though  raven  her  hair, 

Though  her  eyes  were  so  dark  and  her  body  so  slim, 
She  hadn't  a  thought  for  a  man  but  him. 

From  three  to  nine, 

Invited  to  dine, 

Oft  met  at  the  house  of  the  pair  divine : 
Her  husband — and  who,  by  the  way,  was  well  able —  , j 
Did  all  the  "agreeable"  done  at  the  table; 
While  she — most  remarkably  loving  bride — 
Sat  modestly  down  on  the  opposite  side. 

And  when  they  went  out 

It  was  whispered  about, 

"She's  the  darlingist  wife  in  the  town  beyond  doubt;" 
And  every  one  swore,  from  pastor  to  clown, 
They  were  the  most  affectionate  couple  in  town. 

Yes;   Mrs.  McNair 

Was  modest  and  fair; 
She  never  fell  into  a  pout  or  a  fret; 

And  Mr.  McNair 

Was  her  only  care 
And  indeed  her  only  pet. 
The  few  short  hours  he  spent  at  his  store 
She  spent  sewing  or  reading  the  romancers'  lore; 

And  whoever  came 

It  was  always  the  same 
With  the  modest  lady  that  opened  the  door. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  327 

But  there  came  to  town 

One  Captain  Brown 

To  spend  a  month  or  more. 

Now  this  same  Captain  Brown 

Was  a  man  of  renown, 
And  a  dashing  blue  coat  he  wore; 

And  a  bright,  brass  star, 

And  a  visible  scar 
On  his  brow — that  he  said  he  had  got  in  the  war 

As  he  led  the  van: 

(He  never  ran ! ) 

In  short,  he  was  the  "General's"  right-hand  man, 
And  had  written  his  name  on  the  pages  of  fame. 

He  was  smooth  as  an  eel, 

And  rode  so  genteel 

That  in  less  than  a  week  every  old  maid  and  dame 
Was^constantly  lisping  the  bold  Captain's  name. 

Now  Mr.  McNair, 

As  well  as  the  fair, 
Had  a  "bump  of  reverence"  as  big  as  a  pear, 

And  whoever  like  Brown 

Laid  a  claim  to  renown, 
And  happened  to  visit  that  rural  town, 
Was  invited  of  course  by  McNair — to  "come  down." 

So  merely  by  chance, 

The  son  of  the  lance 

Became  the  bold  hero  of  quite  a  romance: 
For-Mrs.  McNair  thought  him  wonierful  fair, 
And^that  none  but  her  husband  could  with  him  compare. 
Half  her  timidity  vanished  in  air 
The  first  time  he  dined  with  herself  and  McNair. 

Now  the  Captain  was  arch 

In  moustache  and  starch 


328  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

And  preferred,  now  and  then,  a  waltz  to  a  march. 
A  man,  too,  he  was  of  uncommon  good  taste; 
Always  at  home  and  never  in  haste, 
And  his  manners  and  speech  were  remarkably  chaste. 

To  tell  you  in  short 

His  daily  resort 

He  made  at  the  house  of  his  "good  friend  McNair," 
Who  ('twas  really  too  bad)  was  so  frequently  out 
When  the  Captain  called  in  "just  to  see  him,"  (no  doubt) 
But  Mrs.  McNair  was  so  lonely — too  bad; 
So  he  chatted  and  chattered  and  made  her  so  glad. 

And  many  a  view 

Of  his  coat  of  blue, 
All  studded  with  buttons  gilt,  spangled  and  new, 

The  dear  lady  took 

Half  askance  from  her  book, 
As  she  modestly  sat  in  the  opposite  nook. 

Familiarly  he 

And  modestly  she 

Talked  nonsense  and  sense  so  sweetly  commingled, 
That  the  dear  lady's  heart  was  delighted  and  tingled. 

A  man  of  sobriety 

Renown  and  variety 
It  could  not  be  wrong  to  enjoy  his  society: 

O  was  it  a  sin 

For  him  to  "drop  in," 
And  sometimes  to  pat  her  in  sport  on  the  chin  ? 

Dear  Ladies,  beware; 

Dear  Ladies,  take  care — 
How  you  play  with  a  lion  asleep  in  his  lair: 
Mere  trifling  flirtations — these  arts  you  employ  ? 
Flirtations  once  led  to  the  siege  of  old  Troy; 

And  a  woman  was  in 

For  the  sorrow  and  sin 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  329 

And  slaughter  that  fell  when  the  Greeks  tumbled  in; 
Nor  is  there  a  doubt,  my  dears,  under  the  sun, 
That  they've  led  to  the  sack  of  more  cities  than  one. 

I  would  we  were  all 

As  pure  as  Saint  Paul 

That  we  touched  not  the  goblet  whose  lees  are  but  gall; 
But  if  so  we  must  know  where  a  flirtation  leads; 
Beware  of  the  fair  and  look  out  for  our  heads. 

Remember  the  odious, 

Frail  woman,  Herodias 

Sent  old  Baptist  John  to  a  place  incommodious, 
And  prevailed  on  her  husband  to  cut  off  his  head 
For  an  indiscreet  thing  the  old  Nazarite  said. 

Day  in  and  day  out 

The  blue  coat  was  about; 

And  the  dear  little  lady  was  glad  when  he  came, 
And  began  to  be  talkative,  tender  and  tame. 
Then  he  gave  her  a  kiss,  begged  a  curl  of  her  hair, 
And  smilingly  whispered  her — "Don't  tell  McNair." 

She  dropped  her  dark  eyes 

And  with  two  little  sighs 
Sent  the  bold  Captain's  heart  fluttering  up  to  the  skies. 

Then  alas— 

What  a  pass! 

When  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  lady  so  sweet, 
And  swore  that  he  loved  her  beyond  his  control — 
With  all  his  humanity — body  and  soul, 

The  lady  so  frail 

Turned  suddenly  pale, 

Then — sighed  that  his  love  was  of  little  avail; 
For  alas,  the  dear  Captain — he  must  have  forgot — 
She  was  tied  to  McNair  with  a  conjugal  knot. 


330  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

'Twas  really  too  bad, 

For  the  lady  was  sad: 

And  a  terrible  night  o't  the  poor  lady  had, 
While  Mr.  McNair  wondered  what  was  the  matter, 
And  endeavored  to  coax,  to  console  and  to  flatter. 

Many  tears  she  shed 

That  night  while  in  bed, 
For  she  had  such  a  terrible  pain  in  her  head! 
"My  dear  little  girl,  where's  the  camphor?"  he  said; 
"I'll  go  for  the  doctor — you'll  have  to  be  bled; 
I  declare,  my  dear  wife,  you  are  just  about  dead." 

"O  no,  my  dear; 

I  pray  you  don't  fear, 

Though  the  pain,  I'll  admit,  is  exceeding  severe, 
I  know  what  it  is — I  have  had  it  before — 
It's  only  neuralgia:   please  run  to  the  store 
And  bring  me  a  bottle  of  'Davis's  Pain- 
Killer,'  and  I  shall  be  better  again." 

He  sprang  out  of  bed 

And  away  he  sped 

In  his  gown  for  the  cordial  to  cure  her  head, 
Not  dreaming  that  Cupid  had  played  her  a  trick — 
The  blind  little  rogue  with  a  sharpened  stick. 

I  confess  on  my  knees 

I  have  had  the  disease; 

It  is  worse  than  the  bites  of  a  thousand  fleas; 
And  the  only  cure  I  have  found  for  these  ills 
Is  a  double  dose  of  "  Purgative  Pills." 

He  rubbed  her  head — 

And  eased  it,  she  said; 

And  he  shrugged  and  shivered  and  got  into  bed. 
He  slept  and  he  snored,  but  the  poor  lady's  pain, 
When  her  "hubby"  slept  soundly,  came  on  again. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  331 

It  wore  away 

However  by  day 

And  when  Brown  called  again  she  was  smiling  and  gay; 
But  alas,  he  must  say — to  the  lady's  dismay — 
In  the  town  of  his  heart  he  had  staid  out  his  stay, 
And  must  leave  for  his  post  without  further  delay. 

Now  Mrs.  McNair 

Was  tall  and  fair, 

Mrs.  McNair  was  slim, 
But  the  like  of  Brown  was  so  wonderful  rare 

That  she  could  not  part  with  him. 
Indeed  you  can  see  it  was  truly  a  pity, 
For  her  husband  was  just  going  down  to  the  city, 

And  Captain  Brown — 

The  man  of  renown — 

Could  console  her  indeed  were  he  only  in  town. 
So  McNair  to  the  city  the  next  Monday  hied, 
And  left  bold  Captain  Brown  with  his  modest  young 
bride. 

As  the  Devil  did  Eve 

Most  sorely  deceive — 

Causing  old  father  Adam  to  sorrow  and  grieve, 
And  us,  his  frail  children,  tho'  punished  and  chidden, 
To  hanker  for  things  that  are  sweet  but  forbidden — 

The  Captain  so  fair, 

With  his  genius  so  rare, 

Wound  the  web  of  enchantment  round  Mrs.  McNair; 
And  alas,  fickle  Helen,  ere  three  days  were  over, 
She  had  sworn  to  elope  with  her  brass-buttoned  lover. 

Like  Helen,  the  Greek, 
She  was  modest  and  meek, 
And  as  fair  as  a  rose,  but  a  trifle  too  weak. 


332  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

When  a  maid  she  had  suitors  as  proud  as  Ulysses, 

But  she  ne'er  bent  her  neck  to  their  arms  or  their  kisses. 
Till  McNair  he  came  in 
With  a  brush  on  his  chin — 

It  was  love  at  first  sight — but  a  trifle  too  thin; 

For,  married,  the  dreams  of  her  girlhood  fell  short  all. 

And  she  found  that  her  husband  was  only  a  mortal. 

Dear  ladies,  betray  us — 

Fast  and  loose  play  us — 
We'll  follow  you  still  like  bereaved  Menelaus.. 
Till  the  little  blind  god  with  his  cruel  shafts  slay  us 

Cold-blooded  as  I  am, 

If  a  son  of  old  Priam 

Should  break  the  Mosaic  commands  and  defy  'em, 
And  elope  with  my  "pet,"  and  moreover  my  riches, 
I  would  follow  the  rogue  if  I  went  upon  crutches 
To  the  plains  of  old  Troy  without  jacket  or  breeches. 

But  then  I'm  so  funny 

If  he'd  give  up  the  money, 
He  might  go  to  the  dogs  with  himself  and  his  "Honey." 

The  lovers  agreed 

That  the  hazardous  deed 

Should  be  done  in  the  dark  and  with  very  great  speed 
For  Mr.  McNair — when  the  fellow  came  back — 
Might  go  crazy  and  foolishly  follow  their  track. 

So  at  midnight  should  wait 

At  her  garden  gate 
A  carriage  to  carry  the  dear,  precious  freight 

Of  Mrs.  McNair  who  should  meet  Captain  Brown 
At  the  Globe  Hotel  in  the  railway  town. 

A  man  should  be  hired 

To  convey  the  admired, 
;    And  keep  mum  as  a  mouse,  and  do  what  was  desired. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  333 

Wearily,  wearily  half  the  night 

The  lady  watched  away; 
At  times  in  a  spirit  of  sadness  quite, 
But  fully  resolved  on  her  amorous  flight. 

She  longed  to  be  under  way; 
Yet  with  sad,  heaving  heart  and  a  tear,  I  declare, 
As  she  sorrowfully  thought  of  poor  Mr.  McNair. 

"Poor  Hubby,"  she  sighed, 

"  I  wish  he  had  died 

Last  spring  when  he  had  his  complaint  in  the  side, 
For  I  know — I  am  sure — it  will  terribly  grieve  him 
To  have  me  elope  with  the  Captain  and  leave  him. 

But  the  Captain — dear  me! 

I  hardly  can  see 

Why  I  love  the  brave  Captain  to  such  a  degree: 
But  see — there's  the  carriage,  I  vow,  at  the  gate! 
I  must  go — 'tis  the  will  of  inveterate  fate." 

So  a  parting  look 

At  her  parlor  she  took, 

While  a  terrible  tumult  her  timid  soul  shook; 
Then  turned  to  the  carriage  heart-stricken  and  sore, 
Stepped  hastily  in  and  closed  up  the  door. 

Crack!  went  the  whip; 

She  bit  her  white  lip, 
And  away  she  flew  on  her  desperate  trip. 
She  thought  of  dear  Brown;  and  poor  Mr.  McNair — 
She  knew  he  would  hang  himself  straight  in  despair. 

She  sighed 
And  she  cried 
All  during  the  ride. 
And  endeavored — alas,  but  she  couldn'tMecide. 


334  HUMOROUS    POEMS 

Three  times  she  prayed; 
Three  times  she  assayed 

To  call  to  the  driver  for  pity  and  aid — 
To  drive  her  straight 
To  her  garden-gate, 

And  break  the  spell  of  her  terrible  fate. 
But  her  tongue  was  tied — 
She  couldn't  decide, 

And  she  only  moaned  at  a  wonderful  rate. 


No  mortal  can  tell 

"What  might  have  befell," 
Had  it  been  a  mile  more  to  the  Globe  Hotel; 
But  as  they  approached  it  she  broke  from  her  spell. 

A  single  hair 

For  Mr.  McNair 
She  vowed  to  herself  that  she  did  notjcare; 

But  the  Captain  so  true 

In  his  coat  of  blue — 
To  his  loving  arms  in  her  fancy  she  flew. 

In  a  moment  or  more 

They  drove  up  to  the  door, 

And  she  felt  that  her  trials  and  troubles"were  o'er. 
The  landlord  came  hastily  out  in  his  slippers, 
For  late   he  had  tended  some  smokers  and  sippers. 

As  the  lady  stepped  down 

With  a  fret  and  a  frown, 

She  sighed  half  aloud,  "Where  is  dear  Captain  Brown?" 
"This  way,  my  dear  madam,"  the  boniface  said, 
And  straightway  to  the  parlor  the  lady  he  led. 

Now  the  light  was  dim 

Where  she  followed  him, 
And  the  dingy  old  parlor  looked  gloomy  and  grim. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  335 

As  she  entered,  behold,  in  contemplative  mood, 
In  the  farther  corner  the  bold  Captain  stood 

In  his  coat  of  blue: 

To  his  arms  she  flew; 
She  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  so  true: 
"Dear  Captain! — my  Darling!"  sighed  Mrs.  McNair; 
Then  she  raised    her   dark   eyes   and — Good    Heavens! 

I  declare! — 

Instead  of  the  Captain  'twas — -Mr.  McNair! 
She  threw  up  her  arms — she  screamed — and  she  fainted; 
Such  a  scene! — Ah  the  like  of  it  never  was  painted. 

Of  repentance  and  pardon  I  need  not  tell; 

Her  vows  I  will  not  relate, 

For  every  man  must  guess  them  well 

Who  knows  much  of  the  married  state. 

Of  the  sad  mischance  suffice  it  to  say 

That  McNair  had  suspected  the  Captain's  foul  play; 

So  he  laid  a  snare 

For  the  bold  and  the  fair, 
But  he  captured,  alas,  only  Mrs.  McNair; 
And  the  brass-buttoned  lover — bold    Captain   Brown — 
Was  nevermore  seen  in  that  rural  town. 

Mrs.  McNair 

Is  tall  and  fair; 

Mrs.  McNair  is  slim; 

And  her  husband  again  is  her  only  care — 
She  is  wonderfully  fond  of  him ; 
For  now  he  is  all  the  dear  lady  can  wish — he 
Is  a  captain  himself — in  the  State  militia. 
1859. 


THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  MONK. 

Alvor  og  Gammen  kunne  bedst  sammen. — (Gravity  and  sport  go 
well  together.)     Danish  Prov. 

Once  Satan  and  a  monk  went  on  a  "drunk," 
And  Satan  struck  a  bargain  with  the  monk, 
Whereby  the  Devil's  crew  was  much  increased 
By  penceless  poor  and  now  and  then  a  priest 
Who,  lacking  cunning  or  good  common  sense, 
Got  caught  in  flagrante — and  out  of  pence. 
Then  in  high  glee  the  Devil  rilled  a  cup 
And  drank  a  brimming  bumper  to  the  pope: 
Then — "Here's  to  you,"  he  said,  "sober  or  drunk, 
In  cowl  or  corsets,  every  monk's  a  punk. 
Whate'er  they  preach  unto  the  common  breed, 
At  heart  the  priests  and  I  are  well  agreed. 
Justice  is  blind,  I  say,  and  deaf  and  old, 
But  in  her  scales  can  hear  the  clink  of  gold. 
The  convent  is  a  harem  in  disguise, 
And  piety  a  fig-leaf  for  the  wise 
To  hide  the  naked  truth  of  lust  and  lecheries. 

"  And  still  the  toilers  feed  the  pious  breed, 
And  pin  their  faith  upon  the  bishop's  sleeve; 
Hungry  for  hope  they  gulp  a  moldy  creed 
And  dine  on  faith.     Tis  easier  to  believe 
An  old-time  fiction  than  to  wear  a  tooth 
In  gnawing  bones  to  reach  the  marrow  truth. 

336 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  337 

Priests  murder  Truth  and  with  her  gory  ghost 
They  frighten  fools  and  give  the  rogues  a  roast, 
Until  without  or  pounds  or  pence  or  price — 
Free  as  the  fabled  wine  of  paradise — 
They  furnish  priestly  plates  with  buttered  toast. 
Your  priests  of  superstition  stalk  the  land 
With  Jacob's  winning  voice  and  Esau's  hand; 
Sinners  to  hell  and  saints  to  heaven  they  call, 
And  eat  the  fattest  fodder  in  the  stall. 
They,  versed  in  dead  rituals  in  dead  language  deep, 
Talk  Greek  to  th'  grex  and  Latin  to  their  sheep, 
And  feed  their  flocks  a  flood  of  cant  and  college 
For  every  drop  of  sense  or  useful  knowledge." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  softly  said  the  monk, 
I  fear  your  Majesty  is  crazy-drunk. 
I  would  be  courteous." 

But  the  Devil  laughed 

And  slyly  winked  and  sagely  shook  his  head. 
"My  fawning  dog,"  the  sage  satanic  said, 
"Wags  not  his  tail  for  me  but  for  my  bread. 
Brains  rule  today  as  they  have  ruled  for  aye, 
And  craft  grown  craftier  in  this  modern  day 
Still  rides  the  fools,  but  in  a  craftier  way; 
And  priestcraft  lingers  and  survives  its  use; 
What  was  a  blessing  once  is  now  abuse: 
Grown  fat  and  arrogant  on  power  and  pelf, 
The  old-time  shepherd  is  become  a  wolf 
And  only  feeds  his  flocks  to  feast  himself. 
To  clink  of  coin  the  pious  juggler  jumps, 
For  still  he  thinks,  as  in  the  days  of  old, 
The  key  to  holy  heaven  is  made  of  gold, 
That  in  the  game  of  mortals  money  is  trumps, 
That  golden  darts  will  pierce  e'en  Virtue's  shield, 
And  by  the  salve  of  gold  all  sins  are  healed. 


338  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

So  old  Saint  Peter  stands  outside  the  fence 
With  hand  outstretched  for  toll  of  Peter-pence, 
And  sinners'  souls  must  groan  in  Purgatory 
Until  they  pay  the  admission-fee  to  glory. 

"There  was  an  honest  poet  once  on  earth 

Who  beat  all  other  bardies  at  a  canter; 

"Bob"  Burns  his  mother  called  him  at  his  birth. 

Though  handicapped  by  rum  and  much  a  ranter, 

He  won  the  madcap  race  in  Tarn  O'Shanter. 

He  drove  a  spanking  span  from  Scottish  heather, 

Strong-limbed,  but  light  of  foot  as  flea  or  feather — 

Rhyme  and  Reason,  matched  and  yoked  together — 

And  reined  them  with  light  hand  and  limber  leather. 

He  wrote  to  me  once  on  a  time — I  mind  it — 

A  bold  epistle  and  the  poet  signed  it. 

He  thought  to  cheat  "  Auld  Nickie"  of  his  dues, 

But  who  outruns  the  Devil  casts  his  shoes; 

And  so  at  last  from  frolicking  and  drinkin', 

'Some  luckless  hour'  sent  him  to  Hell  'alinkm'l* 

Times  had  been  rather  dull  in  my  dominion, 

And  all  my  imps  like  lubbers  lay  a  snoring, 

But  Burns  began  to  rhyme  us  his  opinion, 

And  in  ten  minutes  had  all  Hell  a-roaring. 

Then  Robbie  pulled  his  book  of  poems  out 

And  read  us  sundry  satires  from  the  book; 

4  Death  and  Doctor  Hornbrook '  raised  a  shout 

Till  all  the  roof-tin  on  the  rafters  shook; 

And  when  his  '  Unco  Guid '  the  bardie  read 

The  crew  all  clapped  their  hands  and  yelled  like  rnad; 

But  'Holy  Willie's  Prayer'  'brought  down  the  house.' 

So  I  was  glad  to  give  the  bard  a^pass 

And  a  few  pence  for  toll  at  Peter's  gate; 

^Tripping.     See  Burns'  "Addrtss  ic  the  Dtii." 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  339 

For  if  the  roof  of  Hell  were  made  of  brass 

'  Bob '  Burns  would  shake  it  off  as  sure  as  fate. 

I  mind  it  well — that  poem  on  a  louse! 

'O  wad  some  pow'r  the  giftie  gie  us,'  Monk^ 

'  To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ' — drunk ; 

'  It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us ' — list ! — 

'And  foolish  notion.'     Abbot,  bishop,  priest, 

'What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e'  you  all, 

'And  ev'n  devotion.'     Cowls  and  robes  would  fall, 

And  sometimes  leave  a  bishop  but  a  beast, 

And  show  a  leper  sore  where  erst  they  made  a  priest." 

Not  to  be  beat  the  jolly  monk  filled  up 

His  silver  mug  with  rare  old  Burgundy; 

"Here's  to  your  health,"  he  said,  "your  Majesty" — 

And  drained  the  brimming  goblet  at  a  gulp — 

"  'For  when  the  Devil  was  sick  the  Devil  a  monk  would  be; 

But  when  the  Devil  got  well  a  devil  a  monk  was  he.' 

In  vino  veritas  is  true,  no  doubt — 

When  wine  goes  in  teetotal  truth  comes  out. 

To  shake  a  little  Shakespeare  in  the  wine: 

1  Some  rise  by  sin  and  some  by  virtue  fall ' ; 

But  in  the  realm  of  Fate,  as  I  opine, 

A  devil  a  virtue  is  or  sin  at  all. 

'  The  Devil  be  dammed '  is  what  we  preach,  you  know  it — • 

At  mass  and  vespers,  holy-bread  and  dinner: 

From  priest  to  pope,  from  pedagogue  to  poet, 

We  sanctify  the  sin  and  damn  the  sinner. 

This  poet  Shakespeare,  whom  I  read  with  pleasure, 

Wrote  once — I  think,  in  taking  his  own  '  Measure ' : — 

'  They  say  best  men  are  molded  out  of  faults, 

And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 

For  being  a  little  bad.'     The  reason  halts: 

If  read  between  the  lines — not  by  the  letter — 

'Tis  plain  enough  that  Shakespeare  was  a-trimmin' 


340  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

His  own  unruly  ship  and  furling  sail 

To  meet  a  British  tempest  or  a  gale, 

And  keep  cold  water  from  his  wine  and  women. 

Now  I'll  admit,  when  he's  a  little  mellow, 

The  Devil  himself's  a  devilish  clever  fellow, 

And,  though  his  cheeks  and  paunch  are  somewhat  shrunk, 

He  only  lacks  a  cowl  to  make  a  monk. 

Time  is  the  mother  of  twins  et  hie  et  nunc; 

Come,  hood  your  horns  and  fill  the  mug  a-brimmin', 

For  we  are  cheek  by  jowl  on  wit  and  wine  and  women." 

And  so  the  monk  and  Devil  filled  the  mug, 

And  quaffed  and  chaffed  and  laughed  the  night  away; 

And  when  the  "wee  sma"  hours  of  night  had  come, 

The  monk  slipped  out  and  stole  the  abbot's  rum; 

And  when  the  abbot  came  at  break  of  day, 

There,  cheek  by  jowl — horns,  hoofs,  and  hood — they  lay, 

With  open  missal  and  an  empty  jug, 

And  broken  beads  and  badly  battered  mug — 

In  fond  embrace — dead  drunk  upon  the  rug. 

Think  not,  wise  reader,  that  the  bard  hath  drunk 
The  wine  that  fumed  these  vagaries  from  the  monk; 
Nor,  in  the  devil  ethics  thou  hast  read, 
There  spake  the  rhymester  in  the  Devil's  stead. 


THE  DRAFT. 

[January,  1865.] 

Old  Father  Abe  has  issued  his  "Call" 

For  Three  Hundred  Thousand  more! 
By  Jupiter,  boys,  he  is  after  you  all — 
Lamed  and  maimed — tall  and  small — 
With  his  drag-net  spread  for  a  general  haul 
Of  the  "suckers"  uncaught  before. 

I  am  sorry  to  see  such  a  woeful  change 

In  the  health  of  the  hardiest; 
It  is  wonderful  odd — it  is  "passing  strange "- 
As  over  the  country  you  travel  and  range, 
To  behold  such  a  sudden,  lamentable  change 

All  over  the  East  and  the  West. 

"Blades"  tough  and  hearty  a  week  ago, 
Who  tippled  and  danced  and  laughed, 
Are  suddenly  taken,  and  some  quite  low, 
With  an  epidemical  illness,  you  know: 
' '  What ! — Zounds ! — the  cholera  ? ' '  you  quiz ; 
The  doctors  call  it  the  "Draft." 

What  a  blessed  thing  it  were  to  be  old — 

A  little  past  "forty-five;"* 
Twere  better  indeed  than  a  purse  of  gold 
At  a  premium  yet  unwritten,  untold, 
For  what  poor  devil  that's  now  "enrolled" 

Expects  to  get  off  alive? 

*  Men  over  45  years  were  exempt. 

341 


342  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

What  a  sudden  change  in  the  Democrats! 

They  swore  it  was  murder  and  sin 
To  put  in  the  "Niggers/'  like  Kilkenny  cats, 
To  clear  the  ship  of  the  rebel  rats, 
But  now  I  notice  they  swing  their  hats 

And  shout  to  the  "Niggers" — "Go  in!" 


PAT  AND  THE  PIG. 


Alt  Deutchland's  the  country  for  pretzels  und  beer, 

Old  England's  the  land  of  roast  beef  and  good  cheer, 

Auld  Scotland's  the  mother  of  gristle  and  grit, 

But  Ireland,  my  boy,  is  the  mother  of  wit. 

Once  Pat  was  indicted  for  stealing  a  pig, 

And  brought  into  court  to  the  man  in  the  Wig. 

The  indictment  was  long  and  so  lumbered  with  Latin 

That  Pat  hardly  knew  what  a  pickle  was  Pat  in ; 

But  at  last  it  was  read  to  the  end,  and  the  Wig 

Said:   "Pat,  are  you  guilty  of  stealing  the  pig?" 

Pat  looked  very  wise,  though  a  trifle  forlorn, 

And  he  asked  of  milord  that  the  witness  be  sworn: 

44 Bless  yer  sowl,"  stammered  Pat,  "an'  the  day  ye  wuz 

born! 
Faith  how  in  the  divil  d'ye  think  Oi  kin  tell 

Till  Oi  hear  the  ividince?" 

Pat  reckoned  well; 

For  the  witness  was  sworn  and  the  facts  he  revealed— 
How  Pat  stole  the  piggy  and  how  the  pig  squealed, 
Whose  piggy  the  pig  was  and  what  he  was  worth, 
And  the  slits  in  his  ears  and  his  tail  and — so  forth; 
But  he  never  once  said,  'in  the  county  of  Meath,1* 
So  Pat  he  escaped  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth. 

*It  is  necessary  to  prove  that  the  crime  was  committed  in  the  county  where  the  venue  is  laid. 


THE  TARIFF  ON  TIN. 


Monarch  of  Hannah's  rocking-chair, 
With  undipped  beard  and  unkempt  hair, 
Sitting  at  ease  by  the  kitchen  fire, 

Nor  heeding  the  wind  and  the  driving  sleet, 
Jo  Lumpkin  perused  the  Daily  Liar — 

A  leading  and  stanch  Democratic  sheet, 
While  Hannah,  his  wife,  in  her  calico, 
Sat  knitting  a  pair  of  mittens  for  Jo. 

"Hanner,"  he  said,  and  he  raised  his  eyes 
And  looked  uncommonly  grave  and  wise, 
"The  ken  try's  a-goin,  I  guess,  tu  the  dogs: 
Them  durned  Republikins,  they  air  hogs: 
A  dev'lish  purty  fix  we  air  in; 
They've  gone  un  riz  the  turiff  on  tin." 

"How's  thet?"  said  Hannah,  and  turned  her  eyes 
With  a  look  of  wonder  and  vague  surprise. 

"Why  them  confoundered  Congriss  chaps 
Hez  knocked  the  prices  out  uv  our  craps : 
We  can't  sell  butter  ner  beans  no  more 
Tu  enny  furren  ship  er  shore, 
Becuz  them  durned  Republikins 
Hez  gone  un  riz  the  turiff  on  tins." 

Hannah  dropped  her  knitting-work  on  her  knees, 
343 


344  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

And  looked  very  solemn  and  ill-at-ease: 

She  gazed  profoundly  into  the  fire, 
Then  hitched  her  chair  a  little  bit  nigher, 

And  said  as  she  glanced  at  the  Daily  Liar, 
With  a  sad,  wan  look  in  her  buttermilk  eyes: 
"  I  vum  thet's  a  tax  on  punkin-pies, 
Per  they  knows  we  alus  bakes  'em  in 
Pans  un  platters  un  plates  uv  tin." 

"I  wouldn't  a-grumbled  a  bit,"  said  Jo 
"Et  a  tax  on  sugar  un  salt  un  sich; 

But  I  swow  it's  a  morul  political  sin 
Tu  drive  the  farmer  intu  the  ditch 

With  thet  pesky  turiff  on  tin. 
Ef  they'd  a  put  a  turiff  on  irn  un  coal 

Un  hides  un  taller  un  hemlock  bark, 
Why  thet  might  a  helped  us  out  uv  a  hole 

By  buildin  uv  mills  un  givin  uv  work, 
Un  gladd'nin  many  a  farmer's  soul 

By  raisin  the  price  of  pertaters  un  pork: 
But  durn  their  eyes,  it's  a  morul  sin — 
They've  gone  un  riz  the  turiff  on  tin. 

I  wouldn't  wonder  a  bit  ef  Blaine 

Hed  diskivered  a  tin  mine  over  in  Maine; 

Er  else  he  hez  foundered  a  combinashin 

Tu  gobble  the  tin  uv  the  hull  creashin. 

I'll  bet  Jay  Gould  is  intu  the  'trust,' 

Un  they've  gone  in  tergether  tu  make  er  bust; 

Un  tu  keep  the  British  frum  crowdin  in 

They've  gone  un  riz  the  turiff  on  tin. 

What'll  we  du  fer  pans  un  pails 

When  the  cow  comes  in  un  the  old  uns  fails? 

You'll  hev  tu  go  down  in  yer  sock  fer  a  dollar, 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  345 

Er  sell  ole  Roan  fer  her  hide  un  toller ; 
Fer  them  Republikins — durn  their  skin — 
Hez  riz  sich  a  tumble  turiff  on  tin. 
Tu  cents  a  pound  on  British  tin-plate! 
Why,  Hanner,  you  see,  at  thet  air  rate, 
Accordin  tu  this  ere  newspaper-print — 
Un  it  mus  be  so  er  it  wouldn't  be  in't — 
It's  nigh  a  shillin'  on  one  tin  pan, 
Un  about  a  shillin'  on  a  coffee-can, 
Un  tew  shillin,  Hanner,  on  a  dinner-pail! 
Gol!  won't  it  make  the  workin'  men  squeal — 
Thet  durned  Republikin  tax  un  steal! 
They  call  it  Protecshin,  but  durn  my  skin 
Ef  it  aint  a  morul  political  sin — 
Thet  "Black  Republikin"  turiff  on  tin. 

"  Un  then  they  hev  put  a  turiff  on  silk 
Un  satin  un  velvit  un  thet  air  ilk, 
Un  broadcloth  un  brandy  un  Havanny  cigars, 
Un  them  slick  silk  hats  thet  our  preacher  wears; 
Un  he'll  hev  tu  wear  humspun  un  drink  skim  milk. 
Un,  Hanner,  you  see  we'll  hev  tu  be  savin, 
Un  whittle  our  store-bill  down  tu  a  shavin; 
You  can't  go  tu  meetin  in  silks,  I  swum, 
You'll  hev  tu  wear  ging-um  er  stay  tu  hum." 
But  Hannah  said  sharply — "I  won't  though,  I  vum!" 
And  Hannah  gazed  wistfully  on  her  Jo 
As  he  rocked  himself  mournfully  to  and  fro, 
And  then  she  looked  ruefully  into  the  fire, 
While  the  sleet  fell  faster  and  the  wind  blew  higher, 
And  Jo  took  a  turn  at  the  Daily  Liar. 
1890. 


THE  DONNYBROOK  FAIR. 


Sure,  Garry  O' Glover,  come  over — come  over; 

A  divil  a  bit  will  the  auld  'oman  care : 
Tha'll  be  dancin'  an'  prancin'  an'  gur-rls  an'  romancin', 

An'  discooshions  wid  sticks — at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 

It's  Jamie  O'Neal,  sor,  an'  Dany  O'Riel,  sor, 

An'  the  besht  byes  o'  Dublin  niver  fail  te  be  there 

An'  the  gur-rls  o'Killarney  wid  their  cur-rls  an'  their  blarney, 
An'  their  smocks  an'  their  smiles — at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 

Yis,  Garry  O'Glover,  come  over — come  over; 

Tipple  Tim  o'  "The  Bog"  '11  be  sure  te  be  there 
Wid  his  swate,  darlint  sister.     The  first  toime  I  kissed  'er 

Wuz  behint  o'  the  jig — at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 

Come  over — come  over,  an'  bring  Dany  Dover; 

Tha'll  be  plinty  te  ate  an'  te  dhrink,  niver  fe-ar, 
Fer  ivry  dom  mon  on  the  banks  o'  the  Shannon 

Wid  his  smoked  a-els  an'  sanon*  be  sure  te  be  there, 
An'  ivry  thing  foine  thot  te  dhrink  er  te  ate  is — 

Swate  bannocks  an'  ale  an'  roasht  pig  an'  petates — 
Sarved  hot  be  the  blue-eyes  o'  County  Kildare. 

An  bring  Patsy  Daly  wid  his  Wicklow  shellaly, 
Fer  thim  braw  byes  o'  Limerick  wid  the  thorn-stick  an'  dornick, 

'LI  be  huntin'  a  foight — at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 

*  Salmon 

346 


HUMOROUS    POEMS  347 

'Twull  be  whuskey  an'  gin-an'  a  jig  at  the  Inn, 
An'  huggin'  an'  sluggin'  an'  luggin'  the  jug  in, 

An'  fillin'  the  mug  in,  wid  a  bit  o'  the  bug  in, 
An*  foightin'  the  bul-dogs  an'  baitin'  the  bear; 

Tha'll  be  whackin'  the  bailie  wid  a  sprig  o'  shellaly, 
An' — a  auld  Irish  toime — at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 

Come  over,  come  over,  ye  spalpeen,  come  over; 

Hitch  yer  auld  spavint  mare  ter  yer  braw  Kerry  cair; 
The  besht  byes  o'  Dublin  thot's  alus  a-nubbin' 
Whin  the  ale  be  a-bubblin',  '11  be  sure  te  be  there — 
An'  the  purthiest  gur-rls  o'  the  County  Kildare. 

Tha'll  be  cock-foights,  an'  dog-foights,  an'  Kilkenny-cat-foights, 
An' — afore  the  fun  closes  a  dale  bloody  noses — 

An' — Erin-go-braghl— at  the  Donnybrook  Fair. 
1909 


WAR  WITH  JAPAN. 

From  Bronco  Bill's  Cow- Boy  Ballads. 
BRONCO    BILL    TO    BURRO    BILL. 

Thet  ole  Spread-eagle  thet  "fit  mit  Siegel," 
He's  a  brave  ole  bird,  no  doubt,  Bill; 

But  'f  he  picks  a  scrap  with  thet  bantam  Jap, 
He'll  drap  sum  uf  his  tail-feathers  out,  Bill. 

It  ain't  the  curs  thet  bark  thet  bite, 
But  curs  kin  start  a  dog-fight. 

Them  yeller-dog  chaps  they're  yippin'  the  Japs, 

An'  tryin'  ter  pick  a  fight,  Bill; 
But  yer  bet  yer  gear  they'll  git  ter  the  rear 

Ef  thar  be  a  scrap  in  sight,  Bill. 

Axcept  the  man  thet  niver  ran. 

He's  a-swaggerin'  now  in  "Califunny — 

Whar  Sets  The  Sun" 
On  a  feathered  nest  uf  grafter-money, 

A-hatchin'  office-holders,  Sonny, 
An'  tax-eaters  with  stumicks  thet  hold  a  ton. 

He  kim  over,  a  kid,  in  the  Mayflower  flock: 
In  a  blizzard  they  landed  on  Plymouth  Rock, 

Haggard  an'  hungry  an'  wet  tu  the  skin. 
They  war  out  at  the  toes  an'  jist  about  froze, 
An'  hed  a  cant-tankerous  twang  in  the  nose, 
An'  a  Leyden  witch-chokers  under  the  chin: 
An'  the  Injuns  they  fed  'em  an'  tuck  'em  in. 

348 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  349 

All  the  grub  thet  war  left  fer  them  pore  shorn  lambs 
War  a  fer  kin  uf  pickled  herrin'  an'  clams, 
One  ole  black  Bible  an'  a  Book  uf  Sams, 
An' — forty  bar'ls  uf  Holland  gin. 

An'  the  fust  thing  he  did — thet  Puritan  kid — 

Arfter  singin'  a  sam  an'  pray  in'  a  pra'r, 

War  ter  shute  a  Injun  an'  skelp  his  har; 

An'  Cap  tin  Standish  an'  Elder  Brewster 

They  patted  thet  kid  an'  called  'im  "The  Ruster." 

It's  bold  Ginreal  Bunkum:  yer  bet  he's  no  flunkum; 

He  fit  in  "Seventy-Six,"  Bill; 
He  war  a  bugle-boy,  Bill,  at  Bunker  Hill, 

An'  he  gin  them  Britishers  tumble  licks 
With  a  squad  uf  witch-hangers  armed  with  sticks; 

An'  sum  uf  them  Red-coats  air  runnin'  still. 

With  a  big  battle-ax  he  gin  'em  hard  cracks 

At  Trenton  an'  Monmouth  an'  all  about; 
Whariver  he  met  'em  he  knocked  'em  out, 

An'  laid  ther  Hessians  on  ther  backs. 
With  his  braw  "Buckskins"  an'  his  polly-wog  Pollys 
He  captured  thet  Britisher — Lord  Cornwallis, 

An'  ended  the  war  in  glory! 

An'  it's  all  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 

An'  don't  yer  fergit  it,  he's  on  arth  still, 
A-blowin'  his  bugle  ez  at  Bunker  Hill. 

In  the  "War  uf  Twelve"  he  grabbed  his  ax-helve 

An  fit'  with  Commodore  Perry; 
Them  British  ships  he  knocked  intu  chips; 

An'  sunk  'em  all  in  Lake  Erie. 


360  HUMOROUS   POEMS 

An'  then  with  his  ax  on  he  hurried  ter  Jackson, 

An'  fit  at  New  Orleans,  Bill. 
He  knocked  ole  Packin'-ham  cold  ez  a  clam 

With  a  battery  uf  Pork  an'  Beans,  Bill. 

'Twar  a  famerous  fight — it  war,  begorry; 
An'  it's  all  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 

In  the  Mexican  war  yer  bet  he  war  thar, 

An'  his  coat  an'  his  hat,  Bill,  with  gold  war  a-glister; 

And  he  fit  thet  big  battle  of  Bu-a-ny  Vister. 
Fair  praise  ain't  no  flattery:   he  commandered  a  battery, 
An'  a  squadroon  of  hoss,  Bill,  thet  rid  kinder  scattery. 
The  grease-wood  war  thick  an'  them  Greasers*  war  sick, 
An'  they  skid  ter  the  rear  thro'  the  bresh  double-quick. 

In  the  thick  uf  the  fight — not  a  Greaser  in  sight — 

Ez  brave  Cap'n  Bragg  set  a-straddle  a  kag, 

Gunnel  Bunkum  dashed  up  on  his  bronco  ter  Bragg 

Without  eny  hat  on  his  head — an'  he  said: 

"Cap'n  Bragg,  sarve  yer  guns,  sar,  the  Crisis  hez  cum!" 

Now  brave  Cap'n  Bragg  war  ez  witty  a  wag 

Ez  iver  smelt  gunpowder  under  the  flag, 

An'  he  ordered  the  drummer  ter  larum  the  drum: 

"Double-shot  'em,"  sez  Bragg,  "boys,  an'  let  the  dogs  bark!" 

An'  his  blue-jacket  gunners  they  sprung  ter  the  wark. 

Then  gun-sargeant  Krag  he  saluted  Cap  Bragg: 

"Ot  vot  soil  ve  shootzen?"  sez  gun-sargeant  Krag. 

"Dam  Dutchman!"  sez  Bragg,  ez  he  riz  frum  the  kag, 

"Didn't  yer  har  Gunnel  say  that  the  Crisis  hez  cum?" 

Fire  at  the  Crisis — full  battery!"  sez  'e, 

An'  he  pulled  out  a  bottle  of  ole  "Irish  tea." 

Santy  Aner  she  drapped  her  peg-leg  an'  her  banner, 
An'  tuck  a  skedaddle  on  a  burro  a-straddle, 

*  Cowboy  for  Mexican. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS  351 

With  nary  a  sheepskin  an'  nary  a  saddle; 
An'  she  skid  thro'  the  bresh  till  her  bum  war  a-blister; 
Per  she  seen  Gunnel  Bunkum  in  dar-devil  manner, 
Dashin'  down  on  his  bronc'  like  an  Okla-hum  "twister." 
An'  he  fit— an'  he  fit— an'  he  fit— an'  he  fit- 
Till  thet  ole  Turkey-buzzard  he  squawked  an'  he  skit, 
An'  Aner  herself — the  Gunnel  jist  missed  'er; 
Ef  'e'd  ketched  'er  yer  bet  he'd  a-hugged  'er  an'  kissed  'er. 

In  a  sweat  stood  Ole  Zack  till  Bunkum  cum  back 

With  the  leg  an'  the  banner  uf  pore  Santy  Aner, 
An'  a  pot  uf  frijoles  an'  chili-con-carne, 
An'  a  pigskin  uf  pulque  ter  shorten  the  jarney. 

When  Ole  Zack  he  seen  that  he  tipped  his  cocked  hat; 
Then  he  tuck  a  good  swig  frum  thet  skin  uf  a  pig, 

An'  hurrayed  fer  the  hero  uf  Bu-a-ny  Vister! 

'Twar  a  durn  mean  fight  fer  grab  an'  glory; 
But  it's  all  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 

An'  in  the  Rebellion  he  fit  like  a  "hellian": 

He  commandered  the  Commissary 
While  Uncle  Bill  Sherman  war  swarin'  a  sermon, 

An'  Grant  tuck  his  juniper-berry. 

At  Vicksburg — by  jo — yer  orter  know — 
On  his  bob-tail  stallion  he  led  his  battalion 
Right  over  the  works  head-fust,  Bill: 
Ole  Pemberton  squealed  an'  gin  up  the  field; 
An'  ivery  scullion  cud  see  the  Rebellion 
War  split  wide  open  an'  bust,  Bill. 

'Twar  hotter  'n  hell  an'  pugatory: 
An'  it's  all  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 

An'  when  ole  Weyler  he  busted  the  biler 
On  our  scrap-iron  whale,  the  Maine,  Bill, 


362  HUMOROUS   POEMS 

An'  scuffed  at  our  banner  down  thar  in  Havaner, 
Bunkum  grabbed  his  ole  ax  an'  ten  haversacks 
Ful  uf  beans  an'  bacon  an'  ole  "hard-tacks," 
An'  fit  fer  his  kentry  again,  Bill. 

An'  Gineral  Bunkum — Wai,  didn't  he  skunk  'em? 

He  tuck  them  Philippines,  Bill: 
He  knocked  'em  silly  around  Manily 

With  his  battery  uf  Pork  an'  Beans,  Bill. 

An'  the  way  he  fit  an'  made  'em  git 

On  his  moole  at  Cool-a-can,  Bill, 
Gin  ole  Mike  Kaddy  an'  agy-fit 

Thet  spread  all  over  Japan,  Bill. 
An'  Kaiser  Bill  he  tuck  a  chill, 
An'  steamed  away  frum  Manily  bay 

Ez  fast  ez  he  cud  run,  sar, 
Fer  Gineral  Bunkum  he  writ  thet  flunkum 

Thet  he  war  thar  with  a  gun,  sar. 

While  Commodore  Dewey  war  chawin'  chop-suey, 

An'  sippin'  saki  an'  tuba-tea 
On  his  flag-ship  with  Aggie  Noldo; 
An'  Gineral  Miles  war  pe-radin'  his  files, 
An'  swingin'  his  sticker  an'  playin'  the  kicker, 
An'  chawin'  bum  beef  in  Porter  Ricer; 
An'  Commodore  Schley  war  runnin'  away 

Frum  the  guns  uf  thet  Spaniard  bold  O; 
An'  "Fightin'  Bob"  war  duin'  the  job 
On  his  Brag-ship  alone — with  his  maggie-phone; 

An'  Gunnel  Teddy  war  gittin'  ready 
Fer  thet  ge-lorious  run  at  ole  San  Juan; 

Lte-lighted  ter  handle  his  ole  bar-gun, 

An'  straddle  his  bronco  agin  fer  fun; 

An'  his  fightin'  staff  uf  press-reporters 

War  blowin'  "Big  Injun"  around  his  quarters, 


HUMOROUS    POEMS  353 

An'  loadin'  ther  guns  in  the  canteen-tents; 
An'  when  Teddy  war  lost  in  the  bushes,  Bill, 
In  thet  famerous  fight  on  San  Juan  hill, 
An'  pulled  the  trigger  on  a  skulkin'  nigger, 
An'  tore  his  pants  on  thet  barb-wire  fence, 

Them  'Pinos  war  gittin'  mauled,  sar! 
Bunkum  war  out  in  the  brush  a-makin'  a  rush 

On  beans  an'  bacon  an'  "monkey-mush," 
Briled  parrots  an'  poi,  an'  suckers  an'  soy, 
An'  nipa-sen*  an'  sams&-en,1[ 

An'  snatchin'  them  Bolos  bald,  sar. 

An'  he  wud  a-hopped  on  ter  ole  Japan, 

Right  then  an'  thar,  yer  see,  Bill, 
But  thet  durn  climate — (I'm  tryin'  ter  rhyme  it) 

He'd  gin  'im  the  diaree,  Bill. 

In  the  press  we  read  them  deeds  uf  glory, 
An'  they're  all  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 

Ef  they  work  up  a  scrap  with  thet  game-cock  Jap, 

Yer'll  see  sum  orful  scenes,  Bill, 
Fer  he'll  be  thar  in  the  thick  uf  the  war 

With  his  battery  uf  Pork  an'  Beans,  Bill. 

An'  "Fightin'  Bob"  '11  be  thar  on  the  job 

With  his  mug  an'  his  maggie-phone,  Bill; 
But  Teddy's  Hobnob  with  his — uh — uh — thing-um-bob, 

Kin  niver  lick  'em  alone,  Bill. 

No,  sar  eel — but  Bunkum,  yer  see, 

'LI  be  thar  on  his  bob-tail  stallion, 

At  the  head  uf  his  ole  battalion : 
An'  they'll  give  'im  three  times  three,  Bill, 
An'  a  bigger  tin  sword  than  they  gin  melord 

At  thet  Christmas  jamboree,  Bill: 

*Philippino  rum  distilled  from  the  sap  of  the  nipa,  or  Bulug  palm. 
^Chinese  rice  gin. 


354  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

An'  he'll  run  them  Japs  right  intu  his  traps, 
Er  drive  'em  inter  the  sea,  Bill, — 

Onless — onless — jist  before  success — 
He  shud  git  the  diaree,  Bill. 


1908. 


An'  then  a  nether  page  uf  glory 
Will  be  writ  down  in  our  His-story. 


POLITICS. 

(From  Bronco  Bill's  Cow-Boy  Ballads.  ) 

Wai,  Jim,  I've  bin  a-thinkin' 

Whut  a  pack  uf  fools  we  air, 
A-winkin'  an'  a-blinkin', 

Like  a  donkey  at  a  fair. 

The  more  we  knows  the  less  we  knows; 

Thet's  the  way  it  seems  ter  me; 
We're  like  babies  playin'  writh  their  toes, 

An'  a-gigglein'  with  glee. 

When  we  war  small  we  know'd  it  all, 

Leastwise  we  thort  we  did, 
An'  now  w're  growin'  old  an'  cold, 

But  we  gulps  jist  like  a  kid. 

'Tain't  no  use  ter  send  a  brayin'  ass 

Ter  eny  cullege-school, 
Fer  the  less  he  knows  the  more  he  knows, 

Like  eny  ether  fool. 

I've  bin  thinkin',  Jim,  'bout  politics 

An'  patriots  an'  sich; 
An'  how  they  promise  nugget-gold, 

An'  give  us — gilded  bricks. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  355 

We  went  ter  war  with  Spain — fer  what? 

Ter  free  a  mongrel  breed,  Jim. 
They'd  better  shot  the  hull  urn'd  lot 

Thun  hev  one  Yankee  bleed,  Jim. 

They  cried  an'  lied  about  the  Maine, 

An'  swore  they  bio  wed  'er  up,  sir, 
An'  we  swore  we'd  make  them  devils  drink 

A  tarnal  bitter  cup.  sir. 

The  fax  war,  Jim,  her  orficers 

War  in  Havaner  city, 
An'  each  un  hed  a  hug  er  tew 

With  his  darlin'  sefiorita. 

The  ole  Maine's  maggie-zeen  war  hot, 

An'  in  ther  hurry  they  f ergot, 
An'  left  the  hyst-hole  open; 

An'  some  durn  drunken  sea-dorg  pup 
Drapped  his  cigarette  inter  the  thing, 

An'  bio  wed  the  ole  ship  up. 

They  said  ole  Weyler  wuz  a  brute, 

An'  his  sojers  they  war  fiens; 
An'  then  we  went  an'  follered  suit, 

Out  in  the  Philippines. 

We  spent  three  hunderd  millions, 

An'  a  pint  er  tew  of  blood, 
Ter  free  a  race  of  cyotes 

Thet  niver  war  no  good. 

We  went  ter  war  fer  Cuber, 

An'  we  shud  a-tuck  'er  in 
Along  with  Porter  Ricer, 

An'  niver  paid  a  pin. 


356  HUMOROUS   POEMS 

Our  "Fightin'  Bob''  with  his  maggie-phone 
Knocked  thet  Spanish  squadron  out; 

An'  Bob  he  done  it  all  alone; 

Fer  Schley  he  slid — away,  he  did, 

An'  tuck  a  turn  an'  run. 

An'  Sam's-son,  he — war  on  a  spree, 
An'  he  got  thar  three  hours  after; 

When  the  fight  begin  he  war  drinkin'  gin 
With  Gineral  Ted  an'  Gunnel  Shafter. 

But  Teddy  he  war  ready 

When  we  hustled  frum  the  tents — 

Tho'  a  leetle  bit  onsteady 

On  his  broncy-donkey  saddle — 

An'  we  soon  war  all  a-straddle 

Uf  thet  durn'd  ole  barb-wire  fence. 

Them  Spaniards  run — by  gun,  'twar  fun! 

But  we  thort  our  Ted  war  lost,  Jim; 
But  we  found  'im  tangled  in  the  wire, 

An'  a-huggin'  ter  a  post,  Jim. 

Ted's  bronco  bucked  at  the  fust  puff, 
An'  dumped  the  Gunnel  down,  sir — 

An'  then  the  durn  fool  run  a  bluff — 
Inter  thet  Spanish  town,  sir. 

Our  Dewey  tuck  the  Philippines, 

Way  over  nigh  Japan,  sir; 
An'  he  hed  a  orful  bloody  fight, 

An'  niver  lost  a  man,  sir. 

An'  when  them  Spaniards  cried  "Enuff," 
An'  begged  fer  peace  again,  Jim, 

We  gin  'em  all  the  gold  we  hed, 

'N'  not  a  peep  about  the  Maine,  Jim. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  357 

Fer  them  Deacons  held  a  meetin'. 

Down  thar  in  Washin'-town, 
An'  they  sung  a  sam  an'  cut  a  ham, 

An'  turned  our  Dewey  down. 

An'  Hanner  he  war  thar,  you  bet, 

An'  For'ker — (with  advice), 
An'  Matt,  an'  Platt,  an'  Abener, 

An'  each  un — got  a  slice. 

They  said  it  war  on-Christian 

Ter  rob  them  Spanish  fiens, 
So  they  gin  'em  twenty  millions 

Fer  them  rotten  Philippines. 

Wai,  them  preyin'  chaps  air  hard  ter  beat, 

Fer  they  plays  fer  "pots"  alone,  Jim, 
An'  I  kinder  guess  they  got  the  meat, 

An'  Spain — she  got  the  bone,  Jim. 

I  dunno  'bout  thet  Sugar-Trust 

But  they  grabbed  the  lands  in  Cuber, 
An'  the  sugar-mills — right  by  the  gills, 

An'  all  in  sight,  by  Juber! 

An'  then  they  said  ter  Gunnel  Ted: 

"Them  Cubans  they  air  starvin', 
Ef  yer'll  on'y  knock  thet  turiff  uff, 

'Twill  be  the  Lord  yer  sarvin." 

An'  Ted  he  tuck  a  drink  uf  sap, 

An'  thunk  the  matter  over; 
An'  while  the  sap  war  still  on  tap 

He  went  an'  prayed  with  Grover. 

They  tuck  a  dram  an'  sung  a  sam, 


358  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

Then  Uncle  Grover  smiled  an'  said: 

"The  tariff  is  a  tax,  sir; 
Thet  tax  on  sugar,  Gunnel  Ted, 

Is  a  burden  on  our  backs,  sir." 

Then  Gunnel  Ted  ter  Grover  said: 
"  Oxnard  he'll  hev  the  rabies, 

But  I've  got  a  tender  feelin',  Grove, 
Fer  sugar-tits  an'  babies. 

An'  while  the  sap  war  still  on  tap, 
Cunnul  Ted  an'  Uncle  Grover 

They  fixed  thet  Cuber  treaty  up, 
An'  brung  the  durn  thing  over. 

Them  beet-sugar  fellers  they  kin  go 

Ter  raisin'  pigs  an'  babies, 
An'  take  ter  eatin'  Teddy's  crow, 

An'  guessin'  at  the  may-be's. 

It's  raisin'  Cain  ter  beat  the  beets, 
Ez  sure  ez  Adam's  sin,  sir: 

Thet  turiff  riz  the  sugar- teats, 

But  it  made  our  farmers  grin,  sir. 

It's  hard  ter  see  our  sugar-beets 
An'  beet-sugar  mills  turned  under 

By  a  ring  uf  durned  dead-beats  an'  cheats, 
But,  by  hook  er  crook,  thet  Sugar  Trust 

Scoops  our  sugar-pots,  by  thunder. 
1903. 


IRRIGATION. 

(From  Bronco  Bill's  Cow-Boy  Ballads.) 

Ted  hez  hit  the  bull's-eye  onct,  ole  pard, 

Thar's  no  mistake  about  it; 
No  pioneer  like  you  an'  me, 

On  these  'ere  plains  kin  doubt  it. 

In  a  big  canaul  right  down  the  slope, 
From  Hudson  Bay  ter  San  Antone, 

He'll  turn  them  wasted  worters,  Jo — 
An'  wet  the  air-ed  zone — 

Thro'  the  plains  uf  Noth  Dakoter, 

An'  Suth  Dakoter,  too, 
Whar  thar  grows  them  tuds  an'  lizards, 

An'  them  howlin'  blindin'  blizzards, 
Like  a  pack  uf  demon  wizards, 

Freeze  them  jabberin'  Sweedes  ther  gizzards 
In  them  whirlin'  drifts  uf  snow; 
Whar  them  gray  wolves  howl  an'  foller, 

An'  them  white  owls  hoot  an'  holler, 
An'  the  women  all  look  yoller, 

Fer  they  live  on  tea  an'  toller, 

In  a  "dug-out"  er  a  seller; 
Else  the  blizzards  freeze  ther  gizzards, 

Er  the  cyclones  lay  'em  low. 
359 


3(10  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

An'  yer  bet  yer  bottom  dollar — 
Yer  kin  yank  me  by  the  collar — 

Yer  kin  harp  an'  whoop  an'  holler — 
But  me  an'  my  ole  Moller, 

While  we  kin  pack  an'  swoller, 
We  niver  more  will  woller 

In  them  blizzard-banks  uf  snow. 

Thro'  New-brass-key,  Jo,  an'  Can-sass, 

An'  O-klaw-hammer,  too, 
An'  thro'  the  state  of  Taxes, 

Whar  them  yaw-whoops  grind  their  axes 
In  the  Legislatur,  Jo; 
Whar  the  home  uf  hacks  an'  quacks  is, 

An'  the  thorny  cactus  waxes, 
An'  them  horny  Hoggs  they  grow. 

An'  he  wont  fergit  Wyomin', 

Ted'll  du  the  best  he  can, 
Fer  she'z  lots  of  purty  half-breeds, 

An'  they  call  the  belle — Shy  Ann. 

She  didn't  uster  be  so  shy 

When  the  U.  P.  fust  kum  thro', 

But  she's  gittin'  kinder  civilized, 
An'  she's  wearin'  calico. 

Whar  the  grass-hoppers  an'  the  tater-bugs, 
An'  snakes,  an'  lizards  grows,  Jo, 

An'  cyotes,  tu,  an'  prairie-dorgs, 
It'll  blussum  ez — ez — yer  nose,  Jo. 

An'  thar  won't  be  no  more  skyclones, 
An'  no  more  blizzards  thar,  sir, 

Ter  blow  yer  uff  yer  saddle,  Jo, 
An'  relieve  yer  uf  yer  har,  sir. 


1903. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  361 

An'  they'll  raise  lots  uf  garden-sass, 

An'  gals  with  decent  manners; 
An'  up  in  Noth  Dakoter — 

They'll  raise  polly-ticians  an'  bananers. 

An'  out  in  western  Can-sass, 

Whar  them  hot  winds  scorch  an  roar,  Jo, 
Them  pore  cusses  they  won't  hev  ter  eat 

Tin-can-sass  eny  more,  Jo. 


TEDDY. 

(From  Cow-Boy  Ballads,  by  Bronco  Bill,  Corporal  Company  Q,  Rough  Riders.) 

Our  Teddy's  gone  a-huntin',  Bob, 

Fer  lions  an'  cyotes, 
An'  while  he's  huntin'  varmints,  Bob, 

He's  a-huntin,  tu,  fer  votes. 

Way  up  among  the  mountins 

Uf  the  Tongue  an'  Yallerstone, 
Our  Teddy's  huntin'  lions 

On  his  snow-skates  all  alone. 

Wai,  we  hain't  got  no  "Fightin'  Bob" 
With  his  maggie-phone  up  thar, 
Fer  Teddy's  shot  ten  lions,  Bob, 
An'  he's  rid  a  grizzly  bar. 

An'  the  way  he  skees  among  the  trees, 

War  mighty  hard  ter  beat, 
An'  skeein'  down  the  mountin  wonct 

He  jumped  tew  hundred  feet, 


362  HUMORO  US  POEMS 

An'  landed  in  a  bilin'  lake. 

Now  that  thar  ain't  no  guy,  sir; 
I'm  a  cowboy — toot,  an'  I  will  shoot 

The  man  says  Teddy'll  lie,  sir. 

His  skees  air  thuty-three  fut  long, 
Split  outer  tall  ash  trees,  sir; 

An'  on  the  jump  our  Ted  kin  thump 
Ole  Norske  on  the  skees,  sir. 

His  four-faders  sailed  frum  Noraway 
Down  ter  the  Zuyder  Zee,  sir: 

They  war  Vikings  old,  an'  robbers  bold 
Ez  iver  sailed  the  sea,  sir. 

Fer  they  war  fed  on  black  rye-bread, 
An'  stock-fish  an'  bar-grease,  sir: 

Ther  har  war  red;    the  life  they  led 
War  rovin'  on  the  seas,  sir. 

They  war  ten  fut  tall,  an'  over  all 
A  bar-skin  ter  the  thighs,  sir; 

Ther  legs  war  bar,  axcept  the  har 
Frum  ther  toe-nails  ter  ther  eyes,  sir. 

They  war  alus  fightin'  ful  uf  ale 
An'  Odin's  mead  an'  Balder's  beer: 

They  eat  the  blubber  uf  the  whale, 
An'  devil-fish  an'  shark  an'  whelk; 

An'  on  the  head — when  outer  bed — 
They  wore  the  antlers  uf  the  elk. 

With  big  bar-traps  an'  Danemark  dogs 
They  ketched  the  wild-men  in  ther  bogs 

They  skinned  an'  tuck  ther  hairy  pelts 
Fer  bench-rugs  in  ther  ^Eger-sal. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  363 

They  biled  the  hams  with  cod  an'  clams 
An'  held  Gut-fest  with  song  an'  brawl, 
Like  ther  Gut-faders  in  Valhal, 
An'  ole  Goth  Grafs  in  Jager-Saal. 

They  fit  the  Biton  an'  the  Gaul, 

They  robbed  the  Saxon  an'  the  Celt, 
An'  the  biggest  fightin'-cock  uf  all 

His  name  war  Tiddig  Roosterbelt. 

They  struck  a  calm  at  Amsterdam, 

An'  tuck  she-Dutch  ter  wife,  sir; 
Sum  on  'em  settled  Rotterdam, 

An'  rotted  all  ther  life,  sir. 

An'  thar  they  made  a  coffer-dam 

Ter  hold  ther  kids  an'  crops,  Bob. 
They  built  a  wind-mill  an'  a  still, 

An'  fit  the  sea  with  mops,  Bob; 
An'  then  they  started  ole  Shiedam, 

An'  went  ter  makin'  "schnopps,"  Bob — 
In  a  gin-mill  dairy  outer  juniper-berry; 

An'  Bob,  thet  milk  is  very — sanitary. 

They  war  drinkin'  drams  an'  singin'  sams, 

An'  smokin'  long-tailed  pipes,  Bob, 
An'  weavin'  kipes,  an'  ketchin'  snipes, 

An'  eatin'  "pout"  an'  sauer-kraut 
An'  leeks  an'  whilk,  an'  clabber-milk, 

Ontil  they  got  the  "gripes,"  Bob. 
And  thar  them  Sea-Ram- Ramster-Dams — 

Them  hairy,  wild  Nrowidgeons — • 
Thet  tuck  she-Dutch  ter  wife,  sar — 

Ther  sons  an'  dorters  an'  ther  mams — 
War  ketchin'  herrin'  an'  diggin'  clams 

An'  cabbage  all  ther  life,  sar. 


364  H  UMORO  US  POEMS 

Ther  vrouws  riz  bees,  an'  ducks,  an'  geese, 
An'  waulin'  cats  an'  brats,  sir; 

An'  thick  ez  fleas  thar  did  increase 
Ther  brats,  an'  cats,  an'  rats,  sir. 

In  wooden  shoes  they  dug  the  ooze, 
An'  packed  it  on  ther  backs,  sir; 

An'  with  the  ooze  they  built  ther  "hoos"* 
An'  thatched  the  "hoos"  with  flax,  sir. 

An'  in  the  "hoos"  they  keept  the  goose, 
An'  pigs,  an'  cats,  an'  brats,  sir; 

An'  ez  fer  beds,  they  laid  ther  heads 
On  straw,  an'  pigs,  an'  mats,  sir. 

Ez  fer  the  kids,  the  priest  ferbids 
Thet  I  shud  tell  yer  all,  sir; 

But  in  the  dirt,  withouter  shirt, 

They'd  fight,  an'  bite,  an'  squall,  sir. 

An'  mar-id  men  war  honored  then 
Accordin'  ter  the  count,  sir; 

An'  a  familee  uf  twenty-three 
War  the  minemam  amount,  sir. 

Ez  fer  ther  food,  they  called  it  good; 

But  we  wud  pass  it  out,  sir; 
'Twar  herrin',  geese  an'  clabber-cheese, 

Biled  with  clams  an'  sauer-kraut,  sir. 

An'  ez  fer  clo'es,  mynherr,  he  chose 
A  cow-skin  fer  his  "kleid,"f  Bob, 

The  women  wore  knee-petticoats, 
An'  bare  skin  underside,  Bob. 

*  House, 
t  Coat. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  365 

So  a  leetle  smutch  uf  Holland  Dutch 

Don't  hurt  our  Ted  a  bit,  Bob; 
It  on'y  giz  him  over-much 

Uf  blood,  an'  brawn,  an'  grit,  Bob. 

An'  pard',  'tis  said  thet  Gunnel  Ted 

'S  first  cousin  ter  the  Kaiser; 
When  they  war  boys  they  fished  an'  fed 

Tergether  on  the  Iser. 

Ez  cousin  Ted  lay  in  ther  bed 

In  ther  shack  upon  the  Iser, 
Ter  Will  he  said:   "  Yer  a  crazy-head, 

An'  yer'll  niver  be  a  Kaiser." 

Says  cousin  Will  ter  cousin  Ted: 

"Thet  assertion  is  a  lie,  sir." 
Then  cousin  Ted  jumped  outer  bed, 

An'  punched  him  in  the  eye,  sir. 

So  Billy  he's  afeard  uf  Ted, 

An'  sends  him  p'laver-pie,  sir; 
Fer  Wilhelm  knows  his  cousin  Ted 

Kin  lick  ole  " 1 'ch-der '-Kaiser ." 

"  Ich-und-mein-gott"  might  take  a  shot 

At  China  er  Siam,  sir; 
But  while  our  Ted  is  at  the  head 

He'll  kow-tow  ter  Uncle  Sam,  sir. 
1903. 


HOW  WE  LICKED  THE  PI-UTES. 

(Bronco   Bill,   Corporal  Company  Q,    Rough   Riders.) 

Hello,  Jo! — ole  boy,  how  are  yer? 

Wai,  durn  it,  say,  yer  gittin'  grey! 
I  hope  my  har  don't  scar  yer. 

I'm  gittin'  grey,  but  I'm  gittin'  gay: 

Come  an'  take  a  drap,  I  dar  yer! 

Her's  Ho  ter  yer,  an'  Ho  ter  Ted, 

Per  Teddy  he's  a  brether; 
Fer  yer  an'  me  an'  Ted  hev  lived 

In  the  same  ole  shack  tergether, 
An'  froze  ontu  the  saddle,  Jo, 

We've  punched  an'  bunched  the  cattle,  Jo; 
On  the  range  in  blizzard  weather. 

Yer  remember  ole  Pete — with  his  number  twelve  feet? 

He  alus  war  a  cantankerous  cuss, 

An'  alus  gittin'  inter  a  fuss; 
But  he  feared  a  Pi-ute  Injun,  thet  Pete, 

Ez  a  sneakin'  cyote  fears  pizened  meat. 

Me,  Teddy  an'  Pete  went  a-huntin',  Jo, 
Up  in  the  Black  Hills  in  the  snow, 

Fer  elk  an'  bar  an'  buffalo, 

An'  we  struck  a  band  uf  Pi-ute ; 
An'  they  cum  a-yelpin'  on  our  trail, 

Like  a  pack  uf  starvin'  cyote. 

Our  cayuse  ponies  they  turned  tail, 
Fer  we  hedn't  any  har  fer  sale, 

An'  Teddy  led  the  run,  Jo. 
I  thort  my  pony  war  a  snail 

An'  this  buckero  weighed  a  ton,  Jo: 
An'  ole  Pete's  har — I  swar — turned  pale, 

An'  my  grizzly-grit  begin  ter  fail, 
When  Ted  he  gin  a  lonesum  wail, 

An'  drapped  his  pack  an'  gun,  Jo. 
366 


HUMOROUS    POEMS  367 

'Twar  forty  below  an'  knee-deep  snow, 

An'  a  norther  blowin'  a  blizzard, 
An'  we  cudn't  stop  ter  take  a  drop, 

Ter  warm  a  feller's  gizzard. 
Ef  we  did  we  war  done — every  son  of  a  gun, 
An'  I  guess  yer  wudn't  a-thort  it  war  fun — 

An'  the  run  jist  on'y  begun,  Jo. 

Then  Teddy's  cayuse  went  down  like  a  goose, 

An'  Ted  tumbled  inter  the  snow,  Jo, 
An'  lay  thar  a-groanin'  an'  moanin'  so 
I  thort  he  war  dead  with  a  slug  in  his  head: 
An'  I  felt  uf  my  skelp,  fer  I  seen  no  help; 
An'  my  cayuse  he  bucked — an'  I  hard  a  yelp — 

An'  the  devil  Pi-ute  begin  ter  shute. 

I  hain't  no  use  fer  a  dam  cayuse: 
He'll  buck  er  he'll  bust  when  yer  need  'im  the  wust; 
Picket  'im  out  an'  he'll  paw  an'  snout; 
Tie  'im  loose  an'  he'll  shore  vamoose: 
He's  tuffer  'n  tripe — he'll  git  fat  on  a  snipe; 
He'll  kick  an'  he'll  bite,  but  he'll  flunk  in  a  fight, 
An'  I  hain't  no  use  fer  a  dam  cayuse. 

Wai,  my  durn  cayuse  he  flunked — the  brute, 
An'  them  yellin'  Pi-ute  begin  ter  shute: 

An'  Pete  an'  I,  Jo,  hed  ter  fight  er  die,  Jo. 
Them  sneakin'  Pi-ute  war  tarnal  cute, — 

They  shot  frum  behind  ther  ponies; 
But  we  fit  an'  fit  till  we  made  'em  git, 
An'  sum  uf  them  Injuns  I  know  war  hit, 

Fer  they  run  like  jack-rabbits  er  conies; 
An'  I  gess  them  sneaks  they  air  runnin'  yit; 

But  the  devils  left  one  uf  ther  ponies. 


368  HUMOROUS    POEMS 

Yer  bet  we  hed  a  time  uf  it,  Jo ! — 
A-pullin'  pore  Teddy  out  uf  the  snow 
An'  loadin'  'im  onter  thet  ole  bronco 
Them  Pi-ute  lost  when  they  flunked  an'  run; 
But  we  niver  went  back  fer  Teddy's  gun, 
Per  yer  bet  we  hed  hed  a  plenty  uf  fun 
Uf  thet  'ere  kind,  in  the  snow  an'  wind, 
With  forty  Pi-ute  a-yellin'  behind. 

So  we  broke  fer  the  camp  on  a  durn  long  tramp; 

An'  I  tell  yer,  pard,  it  war  mighty  hard, 

An'  a  wearysum  trail  afore  we  got  in, 

An'  our  stumicks  got  tumble  gnawin'  an'  thin, 

Fer  when  Teddy's  cayuse  went  down  like  a  goose 

Pore  Teddy  he  busted  our  "jim-john"  uf  gin. 

How  Time  gits  away  with  our  har,  ole  Jo, — 
Jist  think  uf  it — twent — thutty  years  ago. 

Wai,  Jo,  du  yer  know,  I  kinder  think 

Thet  fight  driv  Teddy  ter  pen  an'  ink, 

Fer  it  gin  'im  the  blues  an'  he  tackled  the  Muse, 

An'  he  tuck  a  pen  an'  writ, 

An'  he's  keepin'  at  it  yit. 

But  he  done  his  level  best,  Jo, 
In  tellin'  our  story  in  pages  uf  glory 

In  "The  Winnin'  uf  the  West,"  Jo. 

Thet  bronco  we  klute  frum  them  durn  Pi-ute, 
Du  yer  know  he's  becum  a  famerous  brute? 
Fer  Ted  tuck  'im  down  ter  ole  San  Juan. 
Thet  bronco  he  pranced  when  Teddy  advanced, 
An'  he  carried  the  Gunnel  at  the  head  uf  the  rush, 
But  he  stumbled,  an'  tumbled  Ted  intu  the  brush 
At  the  very  fust  rattle  uf  thet  'ere  battle. 
Them  Spaniards  they  tuck  'im.  When  Ted  brought'  imback, 
Thet  pore  ole  bronco  he  looked  like  a  wrack; 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  369 


He  hed  a  bad  coff  an'  his  tail  war  shot  off; 
But  now  he  is  down  in  Washin'town; 
He's  Teddy's  pet,  an'  Pardner,  yer  bet 
Teddy  an'  Taffy  they  rides  'im  yet. 
1908. 


GUNNEL  TEDDY  IN  AFRICA. 

(By  Bronco  Bill,  Corporal  Company  Q,  Rough  Riders.) 

Wai,  Pete,  ole  pard,  whar  hev  yer  bin 
Sence  yer  an'  me  war  in  "Salt  Lick," 

An'  gin  them  sneakin'  cops  a  kick? 
I  'spose  yer  bin  a-gulpin'  gin, 

An'  playin'  poker-sharps  a  trick. 

Yer  orter  gone  with  Gunnel  Ted, 
On  thet  thar  shute  in  Afrikee — 
— Gee!— 

Yer  bet  yer  wud  a-struck  it  rich, 
An'  mebbe  killed  a  Quadruped — 

An'  ketched  thet  durn  Nairobi  itch, 
An'  cum  back  hum — a  Tzar-ovich. 

Ted  collared  me  ter  go,  yer  bet, 
Becuz  we  licked  them  durn  Pi-ute: 

Our  ole  pard  Ted  he  don't  fergit; 

But  I  ain't  no  good  at  huntin'  snakes, 

An' — thank  yer — I  hev  hed  the  "shakes," 
An'  hed  the  "jigger  itch"  ter  boot. 

I  got  a  letter  frum  our  Ted, 

Writ  on  thet  wild  Nairobi  River, 

With  ten  million  skeeters  round  his  head, 
An'  lions'  roarin' — till  yer  shiver. 


370  HUMOROUS   POEMS 

He's  feelin'  purty  good,  he  sed, 

Accept  the  jiggers  in  his  laigs, 
An'  a  tetch  uf  agy  in  his  liver. 

He's  livin'  like  a  fightin'-cock 
On  briled  python  an'  'gator-aigs, 

He's  shutin'  parrots  by  the  flock, 
An'  makin'  them  gorillas  quiver — 

Down  on  thet  ole  Nairobi  River. 
He  sez  that  stinkin'  river  biles 

With  hippopots  an'  crocodiles. 

He  sez  Kermit — thet  kid  uf  his'n — 
Is  like  a  colt  jist  out  uf  prison : 

He  kicks  his  heels  and  yells  an'  squeals; 
He  flips  his  fins  an'  grunts  an'  grins, 

As  ef  he  war  the  on'y  grampus 
On  the  campus. 

Yer  bet  yer  he  is  Teddy's  son — 
A  big  chip  uff  o'  the  ole  block: 
He'll  be  a  nether  fightin'  cock — 

By-an-by. 

He  smokes  an'  swars  an'  sez  his  pra'rs; 
An'  thet  Kermit  hez  tuck  the  bit, — 
"An'  he's  bound  tu  be  a  butcher-b'y — 
Er  die" — by-an'-by. 

Ted  sez  them  lions  they  air  slinks : 
They  tuns  an'  trails  ther  tails  an'  run 

When  they  see  him — cumin'  with  his  gun. 
Them  Somali  women — Teddy  thinks — 

Air  kinder  purty — but  they  blinks. 
Them  fat  ole  she-Somali's — 

They  looks  like  Cholo  tamales — 
But  they  stinks. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  371 

Our  Ted  hez  shot  a  hippopot, 

Tew  zebras  an'  a  buffalo; 
An'  ether  varmints  quite  a  lot — 

Three  big  ole-bull-rhinocerases — • 
How  many  niggers  I  dunno — 

But  ten  giraffes  an'  tew  wild-asses, 
An'  six  durn  bloody  vampire-bats; 

An'  more'n  a  thousan'  jungle-rats, 
An'  a  dozen  Annie  Conder  snakes, 
An' — got  the  "shakes." 

Our  Ted  lassooed  one  strip  d  hyena — 

Per  Teddy  wudn't  shute, 
Cuz  it  looked  so  much  like  Heney — 

An'  he  called  the  cuss  the  "Tweeny." 
Ted'll  send  the  livin'  brute— 

Thet  "tweeny"  uf  his  Heney— 
Tu  the  Smithson'  Institoot. 

Yer  bet  yer  Ted  hez  got  his  senses. 

An'  he  holds  a  under-grip, 
An'  they  pays  his  hul  expenses 

On  thet  famerous  huntin'-trip. 

Ted's  shot  forty  alligators 
An'  ether  worter-craturs — 

Jist  fer  fun; 

An*  a  heap  uf  singing '-birds, 
An'  gazelles,  Pete — by  the  herds — 

Jist  fer  fun : 

An'  they  shets  ther  weepin'  eyes, 
An'  turns  up  ther  toes  an'  dies 
When  the  deadly  shot  it  flies 

Frum  his  gun. 


372  HUMOROUS  POEMS 

An'  wonct — when  on  his  "jigs" — 
Yer  remember  Teddy's  "jigs?" 
Wai,  he  shot  a  pore  wart-sow — 
(It  war  murder,  I'll  allow) — 
An'  her  leetle  squealin'  pigs, 
In  a  slough. 

Sometimes  our  Teddy  rants, 
But  he  niver  gits  the  "can'ts" 
Er  fails — ter  crow — 
Don't-yer-know — 
Barin'  when  he  hed  thet  jig 
With  thet  greased  perairie  pig 

Years  ago — 

When  he  fust  kam — frum  Amsterdam- 
Onter  the  range — a  pore,  lone  lamb 
In  wooden  shoes  an'  red  bandam* — 
Ful  uf  sauer-kraut  and  clam — 

(Ho— Ho— Ho!} 
An'  we  yelled — Salam! — Salami 

An'  we  cut  a  Armour  ham, 
An'  we  wet  it  with  "  Schiedam  ;"f 
Then  we  sung  thet  kid  a  sam — 
Me  an'  Jo. 
(Ho— Ho— Ho!} 

Now  he's  fightin'  flyin'  ants; 

He  kin  make  a  bronco  dance, 
But  he  rides  a  ambu-lance 
In  Africo: 

An'  he  rips  an'  roars  an'  rants 
At  them  lyin'  cor-morants, 

Fer  they  sed  he  split  his  pants — 

*A  large  red  bandana  worn  on  the  head  or  neck. 
tHolland  gin — ("Schiedam  Schnapps"). 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  373 

In  thet  jungle,  don't-yer-know — 
When  he  shot  three  ele-phants — 
In  a  row. 

Pete,  thet  kid  hez  grow'd,  I  swar, 
Sence  thet  famerous  Cuber  War. 

I  wuz  Corporal — don't-yer-know — 
An'  I  seen  the  hul  perade 

Uf  thet  howlin'  Circus-Show — 
An'  a  Spanish  boy-brigate 

On  the  run. 
An'  yer  hard  the  noise  we  made — 

We  Rough- Riders  under  Ted- 
When  we  fit  an'  bled — (they  said) — 
At  San  Juan. 

Ted  he  played  the  hul  brass-band: 

His  reporters  tuck  a  hand — 
An  they  loaded  up  with  gin 

Before  the  fight  begin — 
Then — they  blowed  ther  blumin'  bugles — 
In  the  tents— 
(Fer  the  pence.) 

Gunnel  Wood*  he  played  a  leetle  squeakin'  fife, 

An'  he  rid  on  a  side-saddle 
In  petticoats — half  a-straddle, 
An'  we  made  them  kids  skedaddle, — 
Bet-yer-life! 

Fer  Ted  he  led  the  rush, 

Till  he  got  lost  in  the  brush 
When  them  Spanyards  'gin  ter  shute — 

Like  thet  band  uf  durn  Pi-ute 

*Dr.  Leonard  Wood  was  Colonel  and  Roosevelt  Lieutenant  Colonel  of  the    'Rough  Riders, 


374  HUMOROUS   POEMS 

When  they  made  us  duck  an'  dance — 

Then— I  led  the  hul  advance! 

An'  the  "push" 

Tho'  the  brush. 

Then — they  run! 

We  hed  scacely  fired  a  gun 

When  them  Spanish  kids  they  run, 

An'  thet  bloody  fight  wuz  won — 

At  San  Juan. 

We  war  marchin'  back  already, — 
(Now  I  don't  mean  no  offense, 

Fer  the  smoke  it  war  intense, 

An'  his  bronco  bucked  an'  run) — 

When  we  found  our  Gunnel  Teddy 
Tangled  in  a  barb-wire  fence. 

An'  way  back  outer  reach — 

On  the  beach — 
War  Teddy's  fightin'  staff— 
Press-reporters  uf  Head-quarters — 
An'  they  made  the  burros  laugh 
With  ther  whoop-hurray  and  screech; 
An'  they  split  ther  pants  an'  collars, 

On  thet  beach, 

Fer  ten  extra  daddy-dollars — 
One  an'  each — 
Fer  thet  screech . 

Our  Ted  hez  got  the  jiggers, 
Down  thar  among  the  niggers, 

But  yer  bet  yer  bottom  dollar 
Thet  yer'll  niver  har  'im  holler, 
Er  "say  die." 


HUMOROUS   POEMS  375 

Ef  he  gits  thet  jungle-fever 

In  his  vowels  er  his  liver 

On  thet  durn  Nairobi  river, 

He  won't  cry. 
I  kin  har  'im  swar  an'  kick 
Ez  he  swats  his  ole  "big  stick" 
At  thet  cussed  tsetse-fly— 
Like  a  "brick." 

Teddy's  teachin'  "Tommy  Atkins" 

How  ter  shute : 

An'  he'll  bring  hum  them  rat-skins, 
An'  them  bloody,  vampire-bat-skins, 
An  them  jungle  bob-tail  cat-skins 

With  his  loot; 
An'  a  lot  of  zebra-asses, 

An'  a  few  rhinocerases — 
An'  sum  sweet  Somali  lasses — 
In  his  suit — 

With  a  big  brass  band,  an'  drum  an'  fife — 
Bet  yer  life! 


June  1,  1909. 


PAT  AND  THE  "  FLYER." 


Michael  Dover  came  over  from  old  Tipperary 

To  the  port  of  New  York  — 

Not  a-huntin'  for  work  — 

But  a-huntin'  a  place  on  the  "Tammany  Pelace," 
And  a  smell  of  the  cream  of  the  Bowery  Dairy. 

And  he  got  it,  of  course  —  a  star  on  the  '  'Foorce;" 

For  "Croaker"  was  boss  — 

He  that  bridled  the  mules  and  then  curried  the  "  hoss." 
But  Mike  took  a  notion  he  naded  promotion; 
So  "Dick"  made  'im  section-boss  up  on  the  "Harlem." 

Mike  left  brother  Pat  over  on  "The  Auld  Sod;" 

But  Mike  sent  a  ticket  and  a  bit  of  a  "wad." 

"Come  over  —  come  over"    -  writ  braw  Michael  Dover: 

"Sure,  Patsy,"  said  he,  "Oi'm  the  boss  av  the  'Road'." 

And  Patsy  came  over  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"A  railroad?"    -  He  niver  'ad  seen  wan  befoor; 
He'd  bin  raisin'  petates  on  the  bog  av  the  moor. 
So  Mike  took  poor  Patsy  a  walk  on  the  track, 
And  a  mi-racle  happened  before  they  got  back. 

They  trudged  on  the  fill  and  up  into  the  cut; 
And  Mike  was  explaining,  as  well  as  he  could, 
What  a  grea-at  mon  it  tuck  te  be  boss  av  the  Road, 

376 


HUMOROUS  POEMS  377 

And  thot  he  wuz  boss  av  the  bosses,  and, —  but, 

Just  as  they  came  to  a  turn  in  the  track, 

And  turned  to  return  and  go  sauntering  back, 

The  "Albany  Flyer"  came  whizzing,  and  shrill 

Shrieked  the  warning  whoo-oot — oo-whoo-oot — oo-whoo-oot! 

Loike  them  divils  frum  Yale  whin  they're  off  on  a  "toot." 

"Roon  fer  yer  life,  Pat!"—  Mike  ran  up  the  hill, 
But  Pat  tuck  the  track  an'  he  ran  for  the  fill: 
The  cow-ketcher  ketched  'im  an'  over  the  grade 
Tumbled  Pat,  an'  a  dale  av  a  moanin'  he  made. 

Frightened  Mike  he  ran  down  where  poor  Patsy  was  spilt, 
But  he  found  'im  "All  right,  sor,"  but  dazed  and  a- wilt. 
"It  be  a  mi-racle,  Patsy,  thot  ye  wuzn't  kilt," 
Said  Mike,  as  Pat  crawled  from  the  slush  and  the  silt,— 
"Why  didn't  ye  roon,  Pat?"  —  "An'  didn't  Oi  roon?' 
But  thot  dom  snortin'  cratur  cud  bate  a  balloon." 

"Dom  it,  Patsy,  why  didn't  ye  roon  up  the  hill? 
Yez  come  nigh  a  gittin'  a  ride  te  the  divil." 
"Aw,  Mike,"  stammered  Pat,  as  he  limped  on  the  fill, 
"Ef  Oi  cudn't  bate  the  dom  baste  on  the  livil, 
Sure,  how  cud  Oi  bate  'im  a-roonin'  up-hill?" 
1909. 


NOTES. 


1  Called  in  the  Dakota  tongue  "  Hok-see-win-nd-pee  Wo-hdn-pee" — 
The  Feast  (and  Dance)  of  The  Virgins. 

2  One  of  the  favorite  and  most  exciting  games  of  the  Dakotas  is 
ball-playing.     A  smooth  place  on  the  prairie,  or  in  winter,  on  a  frozen 
lake  or  river,  is  chosen.     Each  player  has  a  sort  of  bat,  called  "  Td- 
kee-cha-pse-cha,"  about  thirty-two  inches  long,  with  a  hoop  at  the 
lower  end  four  or  five  inches  in  diameter,  interlaced  with  thongs  of 
deer-skin,   forming  a  sort  of  pocket.     With  these  bats  they  catch 
and  throw  the  ball.     Stakes  are  set  as  bounds  at  a  considerable  dis 
tance  from  the  center  on  either  side.     Two  parties  are  then  formed 
and  each  chooses  a  leader  or  chief.     The  ball  (Tdpa)  is  then  thrown 
up  half  way  between  the  bounds,  and  the  game  begins,  the  contest 
ants  contending  with  their  bats  for  the  ball  as  it  falls.     When  one 
succeeds  in  getting  it  fairly  into  the  pocket  of  his  bat  he  swings  it 
aloft  and  throws  it  as  far  as  he  can  toward  the  bound  to  which  his 
party  is  working,  taking  care  to  send  it  if  possible  where  some  of  his 
own  side  will  take  it  up.     Thus  the  ball  is  thrown  and  contended 
for  till  one  party  succeeds  in  casting  it  beyond  the  bounds  of  the 
opposite  party.     A  hundred  players  on  a  side  are  sometimes  engaged 
in  this  exciting  game.     Betting  on  the  result  often  runs  high.     Moc 
casins,  pipes,  knives,  hatchets,  blankets,  robes  and  guns  are  hung 
on  the  prize-pole.     Not  unfrequently  horses  are  staked  on  the  issue 
and  sometimes  even  women.     Old  men  and  mothers  are  among  the 
spectators,   praising  their  swift-footed  sons,   and  young  wives  and 
maidens   are   there   to   stimulate   their  husbands   and   lovers.     This 

378 


NOTES  379 

game  is  not  confined  to  the  warriors,  but  is  also  a  favorite  amusement 
of  the  Dakota  maidens,  who  generally  play  for  prizes  offered  by  the 
chief  or  warriors.  (See  NeilVs  Hist.  Minn.,  pp.  74-5;  Riggs'  Tdkoo 
Wakdn,  pp.  44-5,  and  Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacotah,  p.  55. 

3  Pronounced   Wah-zee-yah — the   god   of   the   North,   or   Winter. 
A  fabled  spirit  who  dwells  in  the  frozen  North,  in  a  great  teepee  of 
ice  and  snow.     From  his  mouth  and  nostrils  he  blows  the  cold  blasts 
of  winter.     He  and  I-to-ka-ga  Wi-cds-ta — the  spirit  or  god  of  the 
South  (literally  the  "South  Man")  are  inveterate  enemies,  and  always 
on  the  war-path  against  each  other.      In  winter  Wa-zi-ya  advances 
southward  and  drives  I-td-ka-ga  Wi-cds-ta  before  him  to  the  Summer- 
Islands.     But  in  spring  the  god  of  the  South  having  renewed  his 
youth  and  strength  in  the  "Happy  Hunting  Grounds,"  is  able  to 
drive  Wa-zi-ya  back  again  to  his  icy  wigwam  in  the  North.     Some 
Dakotas  say  that  the  numerous  granite  boulders  scattered  over  the 
prairies  of  Minnesota  and  the  Dakotas  were  hurled  in  battle  by  Wa- 
zi-ya  from  his  home  in  the  North  at  I-td-ka-ga  Wi-cds-ta.     The  Wa-zi- 
ya  of  the  Dakotas  is  substantially  the  same  as  "  Ka-be-bon-ik-ka" — 
the  "Winter-maker"  of  the  O  jib  ways. 

4  Mendota — (meeting  of  the  waters)  at  the  confluence  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  and  Minnesota  rivers.     The  true  Dakota  word  is  Mdo-te — 
applied  to  the  mouth  of  a  river  flowing  into  another,  also  to  the  out 
let  of  a  lake. 

5  Pronounced     Wee-wdh-stay;      literally — a    beautiful    virgin     or 
woman. 

6  Cetdn-wa-kd-wa-mdni — "He  who  shoots  pigeon-hawks  walking" 
— was  the  full  Dakota  name  of  the  grandfather  of  the  celebrated 
"Little  Crow"  (Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta — His  Red  People)  who  led  his  war 
riors  in  the  terrible  outbreak  in  Minnesota  in  1862-3.     The  Chippe- 
ways  called  the   grandfather    Kd-kd-ge — crow   or   raven — from   his 
war-badge,  a  crow-skin;    and  hence  the  French  traders  and  courriers 
du  bois  called  him  "Petit  Corbeau" — Little  Crow.     This  sobriquet, 
of  which  he  was  proud,  descended  to  his  son,  Wakinyan   Tdnka — 
Big  Thunder,  who  succeeded  him  as  chief;    and  from  Big  Thunder 


380  NOTES 

to  his  son  Ta-d-ya-te-dd-ta,  who  became  chief  on  the  death  of  Wakin- 
yan  Tdnka.  These  several  "Little  Crows"  were  successively  Chiefs 
of  the  Light-foot,  or  Kapdza  band  of  Dakotas.  Kapdza,  the  prin 
cipal  village  of  this  band,  was  originally  located  on  the  east  bank  of 
the  Mississippi  near  the  site  of  the  city  of  St.  Paul.  Col.  Minn.  Hist. 
Soc.,  1864,  p.  29.  It  was  in  later  years  moved  to  the  west  bank. 
The  grandfather  whom  I,  for  short,  call  Wakdiva,  died  the  death  of 
a  brave  in  battle  against  the  Ojibways  (commonly  called  Chippeways) 
— the  hereditary  enenies  of  the  Dakotas.  Wakinyan  Tdnka — Big 
Thunder,  was  killed  by  the  accidental  discharge  of  his  own  gun.  They 
were  both  buried  with  their  kindred  near  the  "Wakan  Teepee,"  the 
sacred  Cave — (Carver's  Cave).  Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta,  the  last  of  the  Little 
Crows,  was  killed  July  3,  1863,  during  the  outbreak,  near  Hutchinson, 
Minnesota,  by  the  Lampsons — father  and  son,  and  his  bones  were 
duly  "done  up"  for  the  Historical  Society  of  Minnesota.  See  Heard1  s 
Hist.  Sioux  War,  and  Neill's  Hist.  Minnesota,  Third  Edition. 

Little  Crow's  sixteen-year-old  son,  Wa-wi-na-pe — (One  who  appears 
—like  the  spirit  of  his  forefather)  was  with  him  at  the  time  he  was 
killed.  W a-wi-na-pe  was  at  the  same  time  severely  wounded  in  one 
arm,  but  escaped,  and  after  much  hardship  and  suffering,  was  at 
last  captured  at  Mini  Wakan  (Devil's  Lake,  in  North  Dakota).  From 
him  personally  I  obtained  much  information  in  regard  to  Little  Crow's 
participation  in  the  "  Sioux  \Var,"  and  minutely  the  speech  that  Little 
Crow  made  to  his  braves  when  he  finally  consented  to  lead  them  on 
the  war-path  against  the  whites.  A  literal  translation  of  that  speech 
will  be  found  further  on  in  this  note. 

W  a-wi-na-pe  stood  by  the  side  of  his  father  when  the  speech  was 
made;  like  his  father  he  had  a  wonderful  memory.  At  my  request 
he  repeated  the  speech  to  me  (in  Dakota)  on  three  separate  occasions, 
and  each  time  in  exactly  the  same  words  with  the  same  emphasis. 
The  translation  of  that  speech  is  as  near  literal  as  it  is  possible  to 
make  it.  I  was  assisted  in  making  the  translation  by  Rev.  Stephen 

R.  Riggs. 

I  knew  Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta,  and  from  his  own  lips,  in  1859-60  obtained 
much  interesting  information  in  regard  to  the  history,  traditions, 


TA-O-YA-TE-DU-TA   (His  RED  PEOPLE)   CALLED  Little  Crow 

From  an  ambrotype  presented  to  the  author  by  the  chief. 


NOTES  381 

customs,  superstitions  and  habits  of  the  Dakotas,  of  whom  he  was 
the  recognized  Head-Chief.  He  was  a  remarkable  Indian — a  philos 
opher  and  a  brave  and  generous  man.  "Untutored  savage"  that  he 
was,  he  was  a  prince  among  his  own  people,  and  the  peer  in  natural 
ability  of  the  ablest  white  men  in  the  Northwest  in  his  time.  He  had 
largely  adopted  the  dress  and  habits  of  civilized  man,  and  he  urged 
his  people  to  abandon  their  savage  ways,  build  houses,  cultivate 
fields  and  learn  to  live  like  the  white  people.  He  clearly  foresaw 
the  ultimate  extinction  of  his  people  as  a  distinct  race.  He  well 
knew  and  realized  the  numbers  and  power  of  the  whites,  then  rapidly 
taking  possession  of  the  hunting-grounds  of  the  Dakotas,  and  the 
folly  of  armed  opposition  on  the  part  of  his  people.  He  said  to  me 
once:  "No  more  Dakotas  by  and  by;  Indians  all  white  men.  No 
more  buffaloes  by  and  by;  all  cows,  all  oxen."  But  his  braves  were 
restless.  They  smarted  under  years  of  wrong  and  robbery,  to  which, 
indeed,  the  most  stinging  insults  were  often  added  by  the  traders 
and  officials  among  them.  If  the  true,  unvarnished  history  of  the 
cause  and  inception  of  the  "Sioux  Outbreak"  in  Minnesota  is  ever 
written  and  published,  it  will  bring  the  blush  of  shame  to  the  cheeks 
of  every  honest  man  who  reads  it. 

Against  his  judgment  and  repeated  protests,  Little  Crow  was  at 
last,  after  the  depredations  had  begun,  forced  into  the  war  on  the 
whites  by  his  hot-headed  and  uncontrollable  "young  men." 

Goaded  to  desperation,  a  party  of  Little  Crow's  young  "bucks," 
in  August,  1862,  began  their  depredations  and  spilled  white  blood 
at  Acton.  Returning  to  their  chief's  camp  near  the  agency,  they 
told  their  fellow  braves  what  they  had  done.  The  hot-headed  young 
warriors  immediately  demanded  of  Little  Crow  that  he  put  on  the 
"war-paint"  and  lead  them  against  the  white  men.  The  chief  se 
verely  rebuked  the  "young  men"  who  had  committed  the  murders, 
blackened  his  face  (a  sign  of  mourning),  retired  to  his  teepee  and 
covered  his  head  in  sorrow. 

His  braves  surrounded  his  tent  and  cut  it  into  strips  with  their 
knives.  They  threatened  to  depose  him  from  the  chief  ship  unless 


382  NOTES 

he  immediately  put  on  the  "war-paint"  and  led  them  against  the 
whites.  They  knew  that  the  Civil  War  was  then  in  progress,  that 
the  white  men  were  fighting  among  themselves,  and  they  declared 
that  now  was  the  time  to  regain  their  lost  hunting-grounds;  that 
now  was  the  time  to  avenge  the  thievery  and  insults  of  the  Agents 
who  had  for  years  systematically  cheated  them  out  of  the  greater 
part  of  their  promised  annuities,  for  which  they  had  been  induced 
to  part  with  their  lands;  that  now  was  the  time  to  avenge  the  de 
bauchery  of  their  wives  and  daughters  by  the  dissolute  hangers-on 
who,  as  employees  of  the  Indian  Agents  and  licensed  traders,  had 
for  years  hovered  around  them  like  buzzards  around  the  carcasses 
of  slaughtered  buffaloes. 

But  Little  Crow  was  unmoved  by  the  appeals  and  threats  of  his 
warriors.  It  is  said  that  once  for  a  moment  he  uncovered  his  head; 
that  his  face  was  haggard  and  great  beads  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his 
forehead.  But  at  last  one  of  his  enraged  braves,  bolder  than  the 
rest,  cried  out: 

"  Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta  is  a  coward!" 

Instantly  Little  Crow  sprang  from  his  teepee,  snatched  the  eagle 
feathers  from  the  head  of  his  insulter  and  flung  them  on  the  ground. 
Then,  stretching  himself  to  his  full  height,  his  eyes  flashing  fire,  and 
in  a  voice  tremulous  with  rage,  he  exclaimed: 

"Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta  is  not  a  coward,  and  he  is  not  a  fool!  When 
did  he  run  away  from  his  enemies  ?  When  did  he  leave  his  braves 
behind  him  on  the  war-path  and  turn  back  to  his  teepees  ?  When 
he  ran  away  from  your  enemies,  he  walked  behind  on  your  trail  with 
his  face  to  the  Ojibways  and  covered  your  backs  as  a  she-bear  covers 
her  cubs!  Is  Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta  without  scalps?  Look  at  his  war- 
feathers!  Behold  the  scalp-locks  of  your  enemies  hanging  there 
on  his  lodge-poles!  Do  they  call  him  a  coward?  Ta-6-ya-te-du-ta 
is  not  a  coward,  and  he  is  not  a  fool.  Braves,  you  are  like  little 
children;  you  know  not  what  you  are  doing. 

"You  are  full  of  the  white  man's  devil-water"  (rum).  "You  are 
like  dogs  in  the  Hot  Moon  when  they  run  mad  and  snap  at  their  own 


NOTES  383 

shadows.  We  are  only  little  herds  of  buffaloes  left  scattered;  the 
great  herds  that  once  covered  the  prairies  are  no  more.  See! — the 
white  men  are  like  the  locusts  when  they  fly  so  thick  that  the  whole 
sky  is  a  snow-storm.  You  may  kill  one — two — ten;  yes,  as  many 
as  the  leaves  in  the  forest  yonder,  and  their  brothers  will  not  miss 
them.  Kill  one — two — ten,  and  ten  times  ten  will  come  to  kill  you. 
Count  your  fingers  all  day  long  and  white  men  with  guns  in  their 
hands  will  come  faster  than  you  can  count. 

"Yes;  they  fight  among  themselves — away  off.  Do  you  hear 
the  thunder  of  their  big  guns  ?  No;  it  would  take  you  two  moons  to 
run  down  to  where  they  are  fighting,  and  all  the  way  your  path  would 
be  among  white  soldiers  as  thick  as  tamaracks  in  the  swamps  of  the 
Ojibways.  Yes;  they  fight  among  themselves,  but  if  you  strike  at 
them  they  will  all  turn  on  you  and  devour  you  and  your  women  and 
little  children  just  as  the  locusts  in  their  time  fall  on  the  trees  and 
devour  all  the  leaves  in  one  day.  You  are  fools.  You  cannot  see 
the  face  of  your  chief;  your  eyes  are  full  of  smoke.  You  cannot 
hear  his  voice;  your  ears  are  full  of  roaring  waters.  Braves,  you 
are  little  children — you  are  fools.  You  will  die  like  the  rabbits  when 
the  hungry  wolves  hunt  them  in  the  Hard  Moon  (January).  Ta-6- 
ya-te-du-ta  is  not  a  coward:  he  will  die  with  you." 

7  Hdrps-te-ndh.     The  first-born  daughter  of  a   Dakota  is  called 
Winona;    the  second,    Hdrpen;    the  third,    Hdrpstind;    the  fourth; 
Wdska;    the   fifth,   Wehdrka.     The  first-born  son  is  called   Chaske 
the  second,   Hdrpam;    the  third,   Hapeda;    the  fourth,  Chdtun;    the 
fifth,    Hdrka.     They  retain  these  names  till  others  are  given  them 
on  account  of  some  action,  peculiarity,  etc.     The  females  often  retain 
their  child-names  through  life. 

8  Wah-pah-sdh  was  the  hereditary  name  of  a  long  and  illustrious 
line  of  Dakota  chiefs.     Wabashaw  is  a  corrupt  pronunciation.     The 
name  is  a  contraction  of  Wd-pa-hd-sa,  which  is  from  Wd-ha-pa,  the 
standard  or  pole  used  in  the  Dakota  dances  and  upon  which  feathers 
of  various  colors  are  tied,  and  not  from  Wd-pa — leaf,  as  has  been 
generally  supposed.     Therefore   Wdpasa  means  the  Standard — and 


384  NOTES 

not  the  "Leaf-Shaker,"  as  many  writers  have  it.  The  principal 
village  of  these  hereditary  chiefs  was  Ke-uk-sa,  or  Ke-6-sa, — where 
now  stands  the  fair  city  of  Winona.  Ke-uk-sa  signifies — The  village 
of  law-breakers;  so  called  because  this  band  broke  the  law  or  custom 
of  the  Dakotas  against  marrying  blood  relatives  of  any  degree.  I 
get  this  information  from  Rev.  Stephen  R.  Riggs,  author  of  the 
Dakota  Grammar  and  Dictionary,  "  Takoo  Wakan,"  etc.  Wapasa 
grandfather  of  the  last  chief  of  that  name,  and  a  contemporary  of 
Cetan-Wa-kd-wa-mdni,  was  a  noted  chief,  and  a  friend  of  the  British 
in  the  war  of  the  Revolution.  NeilVs  Hist.  Minn.,  pp.  225-9. 

9  E-hd,  E-t6 — Exclamations  of  surprise  and  delight. 

10  Mah-gdh — The  wild-goose. 

11  Tee-pee — A  lodge  or  wigwam,  often  contracted  to  "tee." 

12  Pronounced    Mahr-pee-yah-do6-tah — literally,    Cloud    Red. 

13  Pronounced  Wahnmdee — The  War  Eagle.     Each  feather  worn 
by  a  warrior  represents  an  enemy  slain  or  captured — man,  wo  .-nan 
or  child;    but  the  Dakotas,  before  they  became  desperate  under  the 
cruel  warfare  of  their  enemies,  usually  spared  the  lives  of  their  cap 
tives,  and  never  killed  women  or  infants,  except  in  rare  instances 
under  the  lex  talionis.      NeilVs  Hist.  Minn.,  p.  112. 

14  Mah-td — The  polar  bear — ursus  maritimus.     The  Dakotas  say 
that  in  olden  times  white  bears  were  often  found  about  Rainy  Lake 
and  the  Lake  of  the  Woods  in  winter,  and  sometimes  as  far  south 
as  the  mouth  of  the  Minnesota.     They  say  one  was  once  killed  at 
White  Bear  Lake  (but  a  few  miles  from  St.  Paul  and  Minneapolis), 
and  they  therefore  named  the  lake  Mede  Matd — White  Bear  Lake, 
literally — Lake  White  Bear. 

15  The  Ho-he  (Ho-hay)   are  the  Assiniboins  or  "Stone-roasters." 
Their  home  was  the  region  of  the  Assiniboin  River  in  Manitoba.  They 
speak  the  Dakota  tongue,  and  originally  were  a  band  of  that  nation. 
Tradition  says  a  Dakota  "Helen"  was  the  cause  of  the  separation 
and  a  bloody  feud  that  lasted  for  many  years.     The  Hdhes  are  called 
" Stone-roasters,"  because,  until  recently  at  least,  they  used  wa-ta-pg 
kettles  and  vessels  made  of  birch  bark  in  which  they  cooked  their 


NOTES  385 

food.  They  boiled  water  in  these  vessels  by  heating  stones  and 
putting  them  in  the  water.  The  wa-ta-pe  kettle  is  made  of  the  fib 
rous  roots  of  the  white  cedar  interlaced  and  tightly  woven.  When 
the  vessel  is  soaked  it  becomes  water-tight.  [Snelling's]  Tales  of 
the  North-west,  p.  21.  Mackenzie's  Travels. 

16  Hey-o-ka  is  one  of  the  principal  Dakota  deities.     He  is  a  giant, 
but  can  change  himself  into  a  buffalo,  a  bear,  a  fish  or  a  bird.     He 
is  called  the  Anti-natural  God  or  Spirit.     In  summer  he  shivers  with 
cold,  in  winter  he  suffers  from  heat;   he  cries  when  he  laughs  and  he 
laughs  when  he  cries,  etc.     He  is  the  reverse  of  nature  in  all  things. 
Heyoka  is  universally  feared  and  reverenced  by  the  Dakotas,  but  so 
severe  is  the  ordeal  that  the  Heyoka  Wacipee  (the  dance  to  Heydka) 
is  now  rarely  celebrated.     It  is  said  that  the  "Medicine-men"  use 
a  secret  preparation  which  enables  them  to  handle  fire  and  dip  their 
hands  in  boiling  water  without  injury  and  thereby  gain  great  eclat 
from  the  uninitiated.     The  chiefs  and  the  leading  warriors  usually 
belong  to  the  secret  order  of  "Medicine-men"  or  "Sons  of    Unkte- 
hee" — the  Spirit  of  the  Waters. 

17  The   Dakota  name   for  the  moon  is    Han-ye-tu-wee — literally. 
Night-Sun.     He  is  the  twin  brother  of  An-pe-tu-wee — the  Day  Sun, 
See  note  70. 

18  The  Dakotas  believe  that  the  stars  are  the  spirits  of  their  de 
parted  friends. 

19  Tee — Contracted   from   teepee,    lodge   or   wigwam,    and   means 
the  same. 

20  For  all  their  sacred  feasts  the  Dakotas  kindle  a  new  fire  called 
"The  Virgin  Fire."     This  is  done  with  flint  and  steel,  or  by  rubbing 
together  pieces  of  wood  till  friction  produces  fire.     It  must  be  done 
by  a  virgin,  nor  must  any  woman,  except  a  virgin,  ever  touch  the 
"sacred  armor"  of  a  Dakota  warrior.     White  cedar  is  "Wakdn" — 
sacred.     See  note  50.     Riggs'  Tahkoo  Wakdn,  p.  84. 

21  All  Northern  Indians  consider  the  East  a  mysterious  and  sacred 
land  whence  comes  the  sun.     The  Dakota  name  for  the  East  is  Wee- 
yo-hee-yan-pa — the   sunrise.     The   O  jib  ways   call   it   Waub-6-nong — 


386  NOTES 

the  white  land  or  land  of  light,  and  they  have  many  myths,  legends 
and  traditions  relating  thereto.  Barbarous  peoples  of  all  times  have 
regarded  the  East  with  superstitious  reverence  simply  because  the 
sun  rises  in  that  quarter. 

22  See  Mrs.  Eastman  s  Dacotah,  pp.  225-8,  describing  the  feast 
to  Heydka. 

23  This  stone  from  which  the  Dakotas  have  made  their  pipes  for 
ages,  is  esteemed  wakdn — sacred.     They  call  it  I-ydn-ska,  probably 
from  iya,  to  speak,  and  ska,  white,  truthful,  peaceful, — hence,  peace- 
pipe,  herald  of  peace,  pledge  of  truth,  etc.     In  the  cabinet  at  Albany, 
N.  Y.,  there  is  a  very  ancient  pipe  of  this  material  which  the  Iro- 
quois  obtained  from  the  Dakotas.     Charlevoix  speaks  of  this  pipe- 
stone  in  his   History  of  New  France.     LeSueur  refers  to  the  Yank- 
tons  as  the  village  of  the  Dakotas  at  the  Red-Stone  Quarry.     See 
Neill's  Hist.  Minn.,  p.  514. 

24  "Ho"  is  an  exclamation  of  approval — yea,  yes,  bravo. 

25  Buying  is  the  honorable  way  of  taking  a  wife  among  the  Da- 
kota^.     The   proposed  husband  usually  gives  a  horse  or  its  value  in 
other  articles  to  the  father  or  natural  guardian  of  the  woman  selected 
— sometimes  against  her  will.     See  note  75. 

26  The  Dakotas  believe  that  the  Aurora  Borealis  is  an  evil  omen 
and  the  threatening  of  an  evil  spirit  (perhaps  Waziya,  the  Winter- 
god — some  say  a  witch,  or  a  very  ugly  old  woman).    When  the  lights 
appear  danger  threatens,  and  the  warriors  shoot  at,  and  often  slay, 
the  evil  spirit,  but  it  rises  from  the  dead  again. 

27  Se-sd-kah — the  Robin. 

28  The  spirit  of  Anpetu-sdpa  that  haunts  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony 
with  her  dead  babe  in  her  arms.     See  the  Legend  in  NeilVs   Hist.. 
Minn.,  or  my  Legend  of  the  Falls. 

29  Mee  codnk-shee — my  daughter. 

30  The  Dakotas  call  the  meteor,  "Wakdn-d&nda"  (sacred  fire)  and 
Wakdn-wohlpa  (sacred  gift).     Meteors  are  messages  from  the  Land 
of  Spirits  warning  of  impending  danger.     It  is  a  curious  fact  that 
the  "sacred  stone"  of  the  Mohammedans,  in  the  Kaaba  at  Mecca,  is- 


NOTES  387 

a  meteoric  stone,  and  obtains  its  sacred  character  from  the  fact  that 
it  fell  from  the  sky. 

31  Kah-nd-te-dahn, — the  little,  mysterious  dweller  in  the  woods. 
This  spirit  lives  in  the  forest,  in  hollow  trees.     Mrs.  Eastman's  Daco- 
tah,  Pre.  Rem.  xxxi.     "The  Dakota  god  of  the  woods — an  unknown 
animal  said  to  resemble  a  man,  which  the  Dakotas  worship :  perhaps, 
the  monkey."     Riggs'  Dakota  Die.  Tit — Canotidan. 

32  The  Dakotas  believe  that  thunder  is  produced  by  the  flapping 
of  the  wings  of  an  immense  bird  which  they  call  Wakinyan — the 
Thunder-bird.     Near  the  source  of  the  Minnesota  River  is  a  place 
called  "Thunder-Tracks"  where  the  foot-prints  of  a  "Thunder-bird" 
are   seen   on   the   rocks   twenty-five   miles   apart.     Mrs.    Eastman's 
Dacotah,  p.  71.     There  are  many  Thunder-birds.     The  father  of  all 
the   Thunder-birds — "Wakinyan    Tanka" — or   "Big   Thunder,"   has 
his  teepee  on  a  lofty  mountain  in  the  far  West.     His  teepee  has  four 
openings,  at  each  of  which  is  a  sentinel;    at  the  east,  a  butterfly;   at 
the  west,  a  bear;    at  the  south,  a  red  deer;    at  the  north,  a  caribou. 
He  has  a  bitter  enmity  against    Unktehee  (god  of  waters)  and  often 
shoots  his  fiery  arrows  at  him,  and  hits  the  earth,  trees,  rocks,  and 
sometimes  men.     Wakinyan  created  wild-rice,  the  bow  and  arrow, 
the  tomahawk  and  the  spear.     He  is  a  great  war-spirit,  and  Wanm- 
dee  (the  war-eagle)  is  his  messenger.     A  Thunder-bird  (say  the  Da 
kotas)  was  once  killed  near   Kapoza  by  the  son  of  Cetan-Wakawa- 
mdni  and  he  thereupon  took  the  name  of  "Wakinyan   Tanka" — 
"Big  Thunder." 

33  Pronounced  Tah-tdhn-kah — Bison  or  Buffalo. 

34  Endh — An  exclamation  of  wonder.     Eho — Behold!    see  there! 

35  The  Crees  are  the  Knisteneaux  of  Alexander  Mackenzie.     See 
his  account  of  them,  Mackenzie's  Travels  (London,  1801),  p.  xci  to 
cvii. 

36  Lake  Superior.     The  only  names  the  Dakotas  have  for  Lake 
Superior  are  Mede  Tanka  or  Tanka  Mede — Great  Lake,  and  Me-ne- 
yd-ta — literally,  At-the-W ater . 

37  April — Literally,  the  moon  when  the  geese  lay  eggs.     See  note  7 1 . 


388  NOTES 

38  Carver's  Cave  at  St.  Paul  was  called  by  the  Dakotas  Wakdn 
Teepee — sacred  lodge.     In  the  days  that  are  no  more  they  lighted 
their  council-fires  in  this  cave  and  buried  their  dead  near  it.     See 
Neill's   Hist.  Minn.,  p.  207.     Capt.  Carver  in  his  Travels,  London, 
1778,  p.  63,  et  seq.,  describes  this  cave  as  follows:    "It  is  a  remark 
able  cave  of  an  amazing  depth.     The  Indians  term  it  Wakonteebe, 
that  is,  the  Dwelling  of  the  Great  Spirit.     The  entrance  into  it  is 
about  ten  feet  wide,  the  height  of  it  five  feet,  the  arch  within  is  near 
fifteen  feet  high  and  about  thirty  feet  broad.     The  bottom  of  it  con 
sists  of  fine  clear  sand.     About  twenty  feet  from  the  entrance  begins 
a  lake,  the  water  of  which  is  transparent,  and  extends  to  an  unsearch 
able  distance;    for  the  darkness  of  the  cave  prevents  all  attempts  to 
acquire  a  knowledge  of  it.     I  threw  a  small  pebble  toward  the  in 
terior  parts  of  it  with  my  utmost  strength.     I  could  hear  that  it 
fell  into  the  water,  and  notwithstanding  it  was  of  so  small  a  size  it 
caused  an  astonishing  and  horrible  noise  that  reverberated  through 
all  those  gloomy  regions.     I  found  in  this  cave  many  Indian  hiero 
glyphics  which  appeared  very  ancient,  for  time  had  nearly  covered 
them  with  moss  so  that  it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  trace  them. 
They  were  cut  in  a  rude  manner  upon  the  inside  of  the  walls,  which 
were  composed  of  a  stone  so  extremely  soft  that  it  might  be  easily 
penetrated  with  a  knife:    a  stone  everywhere  to  be  found  near  the 
Mississippi.     This   cave   is   only   accessible  by   ascending  a   narrow, 
steep  passage  that  lies  near  the  brink  of  the  river.     At  a  little  dis 
tance  from  this  dreary  cavern  is  the  burying-place  of  several  bands 
of  the  Naudowessie   (Dakota)   Indians."     Many  years  ago  the  roof 
fell  in  but  the  cave  has  been  partly  restored  and  is  now  used  as  a 
beer  cellar. 

39  Wah-kdhn-dee—The  lightning. 

40  The  Bloody  River — the  Red  River  was  so-called  on  account 
of  the  numerous  Indian  battles  that  have  been  fought  on  its  banks. 
The  Ojibways  say  that  its  waters  were  colored  red  by  the  blood  of 
many  warriors  slain  on  its  banks  in  the  fierce  wars  between  them 
selves  and  the  Dakotas. 


NOTES  389 

41  Tah — The   Moose.     This  is  the  root- word  for  all   ruminating 
animals:    Ta-tdnka,  buffalo — Ta-tdka,  mountain  antelope — Ta-hinca, 
the  red  deer — Ta-mddka,  the  buck-deer — Ta-hinca-skd,   white  deer 
(sheep) . 

42  Hogdhn—Fish.     Red  Hogan,  the  trout. 

43  Tipsdnna  (often  called  tipsinna],  is  a  wild  prairie-turnip  used 
for  food  by  the  Dakotas.     It  grows  on  high,  dry  land,  and  increases 
from  year  to  year.     It  is  eaten  both  cooked  and  raw. 

44  Rio  Tajo  (or  Tagus),  a  river  of  Spain  and  Portugal. 

45  *         *         *         *         "Bees  of  Trebizond— 
Which  from  the  sunniest  flowers  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 
Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad." 

—  Thomas  Moore. 

46  Skee-skah—The  Wood-duck. 

47  The  Crocus.     I  have  seen  the  prairies  in  Minnesota  spangled 
with  these  beautiful  flowers  in  various  colors  before  the  ground  was 
free  from  frost.     The  Dakotas  call  them  "frost-flowers." 

48  The  "Sacred  Ring"  around  the  Feast  of  the  Virgins  is  formed 
by  armed  warriors  sitting,  and  none  but  a  virgin  must  enter  this 
ring.     The  warrior  who  knows  is  bound  on  honor,  and  by  old  and 
sacred  custom,  to  expose  and  publicly  denounce  any  tarnished  maiden 
who  dares  to  enter  this  ring,  and  his  word  cannot  be  questioned — 
even  by  the  chief.     See  Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacotah,  p.  64. 

49  Prairie's  Pride. — This  annual  shrub,  which  abounds  on  many 
of  the  sandy  prairies  in  Minnesota,  is  sometimes  called  "tea-plant," 
"sage-plant,"  and  "red-root  willow."     I  doubt  if  it  has  any  botanic 
name.     Its  long  plumes  of  purple  and  gold  are  truly  the  "pride  of 
the  prairies." 

50  The  Dakotas  consider  white  cedar  "Wakdn"   (sacred).     They 
use  sprigs  of  it  at  their  feasts,  and  often  burn  it  to  destroy  the  power 
of  evil  spirits.     Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacotah,  p.  210. 

51  Tdhkoo-skahng-skahng.     This  deity  is  supposed  to  be  invisible, 
yet  everywhere  present;    he  is  an  avenger  and  a  searcher  of  hearts. 


390  NOTES 

(NeilVs  Hist.  Minn.,  p.  57).     He  was  the  chief  spirit  of  the  Dakotas 
before  the  missionaries  imported  "Wakdn-Tdnka"  (Great  Spirit). 

52  The  Dakotas  believe  in  "  were-wolves "  as  firmly  as  did  our 
Saxon  ancesters,  and  for  similar  reasons — the  howl  of  the  wolf  being 
often  imitated  as  a  decoy  or  signal  by  their  enemies  the  Ojibways. 

53  Shee-shd-kah—The  Robin. 

54  The  Dakotas  call  the  Evening  Star  the   "  Virgin  Star,"  and 
believe  it  to  be  the  spirit  of  the  virgin  wronged  at  the  feast. 

55  Mille  Lacs.     This  lake  was  discovered  by  DuLuth,  and  by  him 
named  Lac  Buade  in  honor  of  Governor  Frontenac  of  Canada,  whose 
family  name  was  Buade.     The  Dakota  name  for  it  is  Md6  Wakdn — 
Spirit  Lake;    Wakpa  Wakan  (Spirit  River)  is  the  Dakota  name  of 
the  river  that  flows  out  of  it.     As  the  Dakotas  called  all  spirituous 
liquors  Wakan,  an  ignoramus  from   " Way-down  East"   dubbed    it 
Rum  River  and  the  name  sticks. 

56  The  Ojibways  imitate  the  hoot  of  the  owl  and  the  howl  of  the 
wolf  to  perfection,  and  often  use  these  cries  as  signals  to  each  other 
in  war  and  the  chase. 

57  The  Dakotas  called  the  Ojibways  the  "Snakes  of  the  Forest" 
on  account  of  their  lying  in  ambush  for  their  enemies. 

58  Strawberries. 

59  See-yo — The  prairie-hen — prairie  chicken. 

60  Mahgdh — The  wild-goose.     Fox-pups.     I  could  never  see  the 
propriety  of  calling  the  young  of  foxes  kits  or  kittens.     The  fox  belongs 
to  the  canis  or  dog  family,  and  not  to  the  felis  or  cat  family.    If  it  is 
proper  to  call  the  young  of  dogs  and  wolves  pups,  it  is  equally  proper 
to  so  call  the  young  of  foxes. 

61  When  a  Dakota  is  sick  he  thinks  the  spirit  of  an  enemy  or  some 
animal  has  entered  into  his  body,  and  the  principal  business  of  the 
"medicine-man" — Wicdsta    Wakdn — is    to    cast    out    the    "unclean 
spirit,"   with   incantations   and   charms.     See    NeilVs    Hist.   Minn., 
pp.  66-8.     The  Jews  entertained  a  similar  belief  in  the  days  of  Jesus 
of  Nazareth. 

62  Wah-zee-yah's  star — The  North-star.     See  note  3. 


NOTES  391 

63  The   Dakotas,   like   our  forefathers  and   all   other  barbarians, 
believe  in  witches  and  witchcraft. 

64  The  Medd  is  a  wild  potato;    it  resembles  the  sweet-potato  in 
top  and  taste.     It  grows  in  bottom-lands,  and  is  much  prized  by  the 
Dakotas    for    food.     The    "Dakota    Friend"    for    December,    1850. 
(Minn.  Hist.  Col.) 

65  The  meteor — Wakdn-denda — Sacred  fire. 

66  Me-td-win — My  bride. 

68  The  Via  Lactea  or  Milky  Way.     The  Dakotas  call  it  Wandgee 
Tach-dnku — The  pathway  of  the  spirits;    and  believe  that  over  this 
path  the  spirits  of  the  dead  pass  to  the  Spirit-land.     See  Riggs'  Tah- 
koo  Wah-kan,  p.  101. 

69  Oonk-tdy-he.     There  are  many   Unktehees,  children  of  the  Great 
Unktehee,  who  created  the  earth  and  man,  and  who  formerly  dwelt 

in  a  vast  cavern  under  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony.  The  Unktehee 
sometimes  reveals  himself  in  the  form  of  a  huge  buffalo-bull.  From 
him  proceed  invisible  influences.  The  Great  Unktehee  created  the 
earth.  "Assembling  in  grand  conclave  all  the  aquatic  tribes  he 
ordered  them  to  bring  up  dirt  from  beneath  the  waters,  and  pro 
claimed  death  to  the  disobedient.  The  beaver  and  otter  forfeited 
their  lives.  At  last  the  muskrat  went  beneath  the  waters,  and,  after 
a  long  time,  appeared  at  the  surface,  nearly  exhausted,  with  some 
dirt.  From  this  Unktehee  fashioned  the  earth  into  a  large  circular 
plain.  The  earth  being  finished  he  took  a  deity,  one  of  his  own  off 
spring,  and,  grinding  him  to  powder,  sprinkled  it  upon  the  earth,  and 
this  produced  many  worms.  The  worms  were  then  collected  and 
scattered  again.  They  matured  into  infants  and  these  were  then 
collected  and  scattered  and  became  full-grown  Dakotas.  The  bones 
of  the  mastodon,  the  Dakotas  think,  are  the  bones  of  Unktehees, 
and  they  preserve  them  with  the  greatest  care  in  the  medicine-bag." 
NeilVs  Hist.  Minn.,  p.  55.  The  Unktehees  and  the  Thunder-birds 
are  perpetually  at  war.  There  are  various  accounts  of  the  creation 
of  man.  Some  say  that  at  the  bidding  of  the  Great  Unktehee,  men 
sprang  full  grown  from  the  caverns  of  the  earth.  See  Riggs'  Tah- 


392  NOTES 

koo  Wahkan,  and  Mrs.  Eastman's  Dacotah.  The  Great  Unktehee 
and  the  Great  Thunder-bird  had  a  terrible  battle  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  to  determine  which  should  be  the  ruler  of  the  world.  See  de 
scription  in  Winona. 

70  Pronounced    Ahng-pdy-too-wee — The    Sun;     literally   the    Day- 
Sun,     thus  distinguishing  him  from    Han-ye-tuwee  (Hahng-yay-too- 
wee)  the  Night  Sun  (the  moon).     They  are  twin  brothers,  but  Anpg- 
tuwee  is  the  more  powerful.      Han-ye-tuwee  receives  his  power  from 
his  brother  and  obeys  him.     He  watches  over  the  earth  while  the 
sun  sleeps.     The  Dakotas  believe  the  sun  is  the  father  of  life.     Unlike 
the  most  of  their  other  gods,  he  is  beneficent  and  kind;    yet  they 
worshiped  him  (in  the  sun-dance)  in  the  most  dreadful  manner.     See 
Riggs'   Tahkoo  Wakan,  pp.  81-2,  and  Catlin's   Okeepa.     The  moon 
is  worshiped  as  the  representative  of  the  sun;   and  in  the  great  Sun 
dance,  which  is  usually  held  in  the  full  of  the  moon,  when  the  moon 
rises  the  dancers  turn  their  eyes  on  her  (or  him).     Anpctuwce  issues 
every  morning  from  the  lodge  of    Han-ndn-na  (the  Morning)   and 
begins  his  journey  over  the  sky  to  his  lodge  in  the  land  of  shadows. 
Sometimes  he  walks  over  on  the  Bridge  (or  path)  of  the  Spirits — 
Wandge   Ta-chdn-ku, — and  sometimes  he  sails  over  the  sea  of  the 
skies  in  his  shining  canoe;   but  somehow,  and  the  Dakotas  do  not  ex 
plain  how,  he  gets  back  again  to  the  lodge  of  Hanndnna  in  time  to 
take  a  nap  and  eat  his  breakfast  before  starting  anew  on  his  journey. 
The  Dakotas  swear  by  the  sun,  "  As  Anpetuwee  hears  me,  this  is  true !" 
They  call  him  Father  and  pray  to  him — "Wakdn!    Ate,  on-she-md- 
da" — "Sacred   Spirit, — Father,   have   mercy   on   me."     As   the   Sun 
is  the  father,  so  they  believe  the  Earth  is  the  mother,  of  life.     Truly 
there  is  much  philosophy  in  the  Dakota  mythology.     The  Algonkins 
call    the    earth    "  Me-suk-kum-mik-o-kw a  " — the    great-grandmother 
of  all.      Narrative  of  John  Tanner,  p.  193. 

71  The  Dakotas  reckon  their  months  by  moons.     They  name  their 
moons   from   natural   circumstances.     They  correspond  very  nearly 
with  our  months,  as  follows: 

January — Wee-te-rhee — The  Hard  Moon;    i.e. — the  cold  moon. 


NOTES  393 

February — Wee-cd-ta-wee — The  Coon  Moon — (the  moon  when  the 
coons  come  out  of  their  hollow  trees) . 

March — Istd-wee-ca-ya-zang-wee — the  sore-eyes  moon  (from  snow 
blindness) . 

April — Magd-oka-da-wee — the  moon  when  the  geese  lay  eggs;  also 
called  Wokdda-wee — egg-moon;  and  sometimes  Watd-papee-wee,  the 
canoe-moon,  or  moon  when  the  streams  become  free  from  ice. 

May — W 6-zn-pee-wee — the  planting  moon. 

June — Wazu-ste-ca-sa-wee — the  strawberry  moon. 

July — W a-sun-pa-wee — the  moon  when  the  geese  shed  their  feathers, 
also  called  Chang-pd-sapa-wee — Choke-Cherry  moon,  and  sometimes 
— Mna-rchd-rcha-wee — "The  moon  of  the  red-blooming  lilies,"  lit 
erally,  the  red-lily  moon. 

August — W asti-ton-wee — the  ripe  moon,  i.e.,  Harvest  Moon. 

September — Psin-na-ke-tu-wee — the  ripe  rice  moon.  (When  the 
wild  rice  is  ripe.) 

October — W d-zu-pee-wee  or  W ee-wa-zu-pee — the  moon  when  wild 
rice  is  gathered  and  laid  up  for  winter. 

November — Ta-kee-yu-hrd-wee — the  deer-rutting  moon. 

December — Ta-he-cha-psung-wee — the  moon  when  deer  shed  their 
horns. 

72  Oonk-to-mee — is  a   "bad  spirit"   in  the  form  of  a   monstrous 
black  spider.     He  inhabits  fens  and  marshes  and  lies  in  wait  for  his 
prey.     At  night  he  often  lights  a  torch  (evidently  the  ignis  fatuus  or 
Jack-o 'lantern)  and  swings  it  on  the  marshes  to  decoy  the  unwary 
into  his  toils. 

73  The  Dakotas  have  their  stone-idol,  or  god,  called  Toon-kan — 
or  Inyan.     This  god  dwells  in  stone  or  rocks  and  is,  they  say,  the 
oldest  god  of  all — he  is  grandfather  of  all  living  things.     I  think,  how 
ever,  that  the  stone  is  merely  the  symbol  of  the  everlasting,  all-per 
vading,  invisible  Ta-ku  Wa-kan — the  essence  of  all  life, — pervading 
all  nature,  animate   and   inanimate.      The    Rev.   S.    R.   Riggs,  who 
for  forty  years  was  a  student    of    Dakota  customs,   superstitions, 
etc.,  says,   Tdhkoo  Wahkan,  p.  55,  et  seq.:    "The  religious   faith  of 


394  NOTES 

the  Dakota  is  not  in  his  gods  as  such.  It  is  in  an  intangible,  mysteri 
ous  something  of  which  they  are  only  the  embodiment,  and  that  in 
such  measure  and  degree  as  may  accord  with  the  individual  fancy 
of  the  worshiper.  Each  one  will  worship  some  of  these  divinities,  and 
neglect  or  despise  others,  but  the  great  object  of  all  their  worship, 
whatever  its  chosen  medium,  is  the  Ta-koo  Wa-kan,  which  is  the 
supernatural  and  mysterious.  No  one  term  can  express  the  full  mean 
ing  of  the  Dakota's  Wakan.  It  comprehends  all  mystery,  secret 
power  and  divinity.  Awe  and  reverence  are  its  due,  and  it  is  as  un 
limited  in  manifestation  as  it  is  in  idea.  All  life  is  Wakan;  so  also 
is  everything  which  exhibits  power,  whether  in  action,  as  the  winds 
and  drifting  clouds;  or  in  passive  endurance,  as  the  boulder  by  the 
wayside.  For  even  the  commonest  sticks  and  stones  have  a  spiritual 
essence  which  must  be  reverenced  as  a  manifestation  of  the  all-per 
vading,  mysterious  power  that  fills  the  universe." 

74  Wazi-kute — Wah-ze-koo-tay;    literally — Pine-shooter, — he   that 
shoots  among  the  pines.     When  Father  Hennepin  was  at  Mille  Lacs 
in    1679,  Wazi-kute    was    the    head    chief  (Itdncari)  of  the   band  of 
Isantees.     Hennepin  writes  the  name  Ouasicoude',  and  translates  it 
— the  "Pierced   Pine."     See   Shea's    Hennepin,  p.  234,  Minn.  Hist. 
Coll.,  vol.   1,  p.  316. 

75  When  a  Dakota  brave  wishes  to  "propose"  to  a  "tawny  maid," 
he  visits  her  teepee  at  night  after  she  has  retired,  or  rather,  laid  down 
in  her  robe  to  sleep.     He  lights  a  splinter  of  wood  and  holds  it  to 
her  face.     If  she  blows  out  the  light,  he  is  accepted;    if  she  covers 
her  head  and  leaves  it  burning  he  is  rejected.      The  rejection  how 
ever  is  not  considered  final  till  it  has  been   thrice  repeated.      Even 
then  the  maiden  is  often  bought  of  her  parents  or  guardian,  and 
forced  to  become  the  wife  of  the  rejected  suitor.     If  she  accepts  the 
proposal,  still  the  suitor  must  buy  her  of  her  parents  with  suitable 
gifts. 

76  The  Dakotas  called  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  the  Ha-PIa—th& 
loud  laughing,  or  roaring.     The  Mississippi  River  they  called  Ha- Ha 
Wd-kpa — River  of  the  Falls.     The  Ojibway  name  for  the  Falls  of 


NOTES  395 

St.  Anthony  is  Ka-kd-bik-knng.  Minnehaha  is  a  combination  of 
two  Dakota  words — Mini — water  and  Ha- Ha,  Falls;  but  it  is  not 
the  name  by  which  the  Dakotas  designated  that  cataract.  Some 
authorities  say  they  called  it  I-hd-ha — pronounced  E-rhah-rhah — - 
lightly  laughing.  Rev.  S.  W.  Pond,  whose  long  residence  as  a  mis 
sionary  among  the  Dakotas  in  this  immediate  vicinity  makes  him 
an  authority  that  can  hardly  be  questioned,  says  they  called  the  Falls 
of  Minnehaha  "  Mini-i-hrpa-ya-dan"  and  it  had  no  other  name  in 
Dakota.  "It  means  Little  Falls  and  nothing  else."  Letter  to  the 
author. 

77  The  game  of  the  Plum-stones  is  one  of  the  favorite  games  of 
the  Dakotas.     Hennepin  was  the  first  to  describe  this  game,  in  his 
Description  de  la  Louisiane,   Paris,    1683,   and  he  describes  it  very 
accurately.     See  Shea's  translation  p.   301.     The  Dakotas  call  this 
game    Kan-soo    Koo-tay-pe — shooting   plum-stones.     Each   stone   is 
painted  black  on  one  side  and  red  on  the  other;    on  one  side  they 
grave  certain  figures  which  make  the  stones  Wakan.     They  are  placed 
in  a  dish  and  thrown  up  like  dice.     Indeed,  the  game  is  virtually  a 
game  of  dice.     Hennepin  says:    "There  are  some  so  given  to  this 
game  that  they  will  gamble  away  even  their  great  coat.     Those  who 
conduct  the  game  cry  at  the  top  of  their  voices  when  they  rattle  the 
platter,  and  they  strike  their  shoulders  so  hard  as  to  leave  them  all 
black  with  the  blows." 

78  Wa-tanka — contraction  of  Wa-kan  Tanka — Great  Spirit.     The 
Dakotas   had   no    Wakan    Tanka    (or    Wakan-peta — fire   spirit) — till 
white  men  imported  them.     There  being  no  name  for  the  Supreme 
Being  in  the  Dakota  tongue  (except  Tdku  Skdn-skdn. — See  note  51) — 
and  all  their  gods  and  spirits  being  Wakan — the  missionaries  named 
God  in  Dakota — "Wakan  Tanka" — which  means  Big  Spirit,  or  The 
Big  Mysterious. 

79  The   Dakotas   called   Lake   Calhoun,   at   Minneapolis,   Minn. — 
Mde-mdd-za — Loon    Lake.     They    also    called    it    Re-ya-ta-mde — the 
lake  back  from  the  river.     They  called  Lake  Harriet — Mde-unma — 
the  other  lake — or  (perhaps)  Mde-uma — Hazel-nut  Lake.     The  lake 


396  NOTES 

nearest  Calhoun  on  the  north — Lake  of  the  Isles — they  called  Wi-ta 
Mde — Island-Lake.  Lake  Minnetonka  they  called  Me-ne-a-tdn-ka — 
Broad  Water. 

80  The  animal  called  by  the  French  voyageurs  the  cabri  (the  kid) 
is  found  only  on  the  prairies.     It  is  of  the  goat  kind,  smaller  than 
a  deer  and  so  swift  that  neither  horse  nor  dog  can  overtake  it.      (Snel- 
ling's  "  Tales  of  the  Northwest,"  p.  286,  note  15.)     It  is  the  gazelle, 
or  prairie  antelope,  called  by  the  Dakotas  Ta-tdka-dan — little  ante 
lope.     It  is  the  Pish-tah-te-koosh  of  the  Algonkin  tribes,  "reckoned 
the   fleetest  animal   in   the   prairie   country   about   the   Assiniboin." 
Captivity  and  Adventures  of  John  Tanner,  p.  301. 

81  The  Wicdstdpi  Wakdnpi   (literally,  men  supernatural)   are  the 
"Medicine-men"  or  Magicians  of  the  Dakotas.     They  call  themselves 
the  sons  or  disciples  of    Unktehee.     In  their  rites,  ceremonies,  tricks 
and  pretensions  they  closely  resemble  the  Dactyli,  Idee  and  Curetes 
of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  Magi  of  the  Persians  and  the 
Druids  of  Britain.     Their  pretended  intercourse  with  spirits,   their 
powers  of  magic  and  divination,   and  their  rites  are  substantially 
the  same,  and  point  unmistakably  to  a  common  origin.     The  Dakota 
"Medicine-Man"  can  do  the  "rope  trick"  of  the  Hindoo  magician 
to  perfection.     The  teepee  used  for  the  Wakan  Wacipee — or  Sacred 
Dance — is  called  the  Wakan   Teepee — the  Sacred  Teepee.     Carvers 
Cave  at  St.  Paul  was  also  called  Wakan  Teepee  because  the  Medicine 
men  or  magicians  often  held  their  dances  and  feasts  in  it.     For  a 
full  account  of  the  rites,  etc.,  see  Riggs'   Tahkoo  Wahkan,  Chapter 
VI.     The    Ta-sha-ke — literally,    "Deer-hoofs" — is  a  rattle  made  by 
hanging  the  hard  segments  of  deer-hoofs  to  a  wooden  rod  a  foot  long — 
about  an  inch  in  diameter  at  the  handle  end,  and  tapering  to  a  point 
at  the  other.     The  clashing  of  these  horny  bits  makes  a  sharp,  shrill 
sound  something  like  distant  sleighbells.     In  their  incantations  over 
the  sick  they  sometimes  use  the  gourd-shell  rattle. 

The  Chdn-che-ga — is  a  drum  or  "Wooden  Kettle."  The  hoop  of 
the  drum  is  from  a  foot  to  eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  and  from  three 
to  ten  inches  deep.  The  skin  covering  is  stretched  over  one  end, 
making  a  drum  with  one  end  only.  The  magical  drum-sticks  are 


NOTES  397 

ornamented  with  down,  and  heads  of  birds  or  animals  are  carved  on 
them.  This  makes  them  Wakan. 

The  flute  called  Cho-tanka  (big  pith)  is  of  two  varieties — one  made 
of  sumac,  the  pith  of  which  is  punched  out.  The  second  variety  is 
made  of  the  long  bone  of  the  wing  or  thigh  of  the  swan  or  crane. 
They  call  the  first  the  bubbling  chotanka  from  the  tremulous  note 
it  gives  when  blown  with  all  the  holes  stopped.  Riggs'  Tdhkoo  Wah- 
kan,  p.  476,  et  seq. 

E-ne-pee — vapor-bath,  is  used  as  a  purification  preparatory  to  the 
sacred  feasts.  The  vapor-bath  is  taken  in  this  way:  "A  number 
of  poles,  the  size  of  hoop-poles  or  less,  are  taken,  and  their  larger 
ends  being  set  in  the  ground  in  a  circle,  the  flexible  tops  are  bent 
over  and  tied  in  the  center.  This  frame-work  is  then  covered  with 
robes  and  blankets,  a  small  hole  being  left  on  one  side  for  an  entrance. 
Before  the  door  a  fire  is  built,  and  round  stones  about  the  size  of  a 
man's  head,  are  heated  in  it.  When  hot  they  are  rolled  within,  and 
the  door  being  closed  steam  is  made  by  pouring  water  on  them.  The 
devotee,  stripped  to  the  skin,  sits  within  this  steam-tight  dome, 
sweating  profusely  at  every  pore,  until  he  is  nearly  suffocated.  Some 
times  a  number  engage  in  it  together  and  unite  their  prayers  and 
songs."  Tdhkoo  Wakan,  p.  83.  Father  Hennepin  was  subjected 
to  the  vapor-bath  at  Mille  Lacs  by  Chief  Aqni-pa-que-tin,  over  two 
hundred  years  ago.  After  describing  the  method,  Hennepin  says: 
"When  he  had  made  me  sweat  thus  three  times  in  a  week,  I  felt  as 
strong  as  ever."  Shea's  Hennepin,  p.  228.  For  a  very  full  and 
accurate  account  of  the  Medicine-men  of  the  Dakotas,  and  their 
rites,  etc.,  see  Chap.  II,  NeilVs  Hist.  Minnesota. 

82  The  sacred  O-zu-ha — or  Medicine-sack  must  be  made  of  the 
skin  of  the  otter,  the  coon,  the  weasel,  the  squirrel,  the  loon,  a  certain 
kind  of  fish  or  the  skins  of  serpents.  It  must  contain  four  kinds  of 
medicine  (or  magic)  representing  birds,  beasts,  herbs  and  trees,  viz.: 
The  down  of  the  female  swan  colored  red,  the  roots  of  certain  grasses, 
bark  from  the  roots  of  cedar  trees,  and  hair  of  the  buffalo.  "From 
this  combination  proceeds  a  Wakan  influence  so  powerful  that  no 
human  being,  unassisted,  can  resist  it."  Wonderful  indeed  must 


398  NOTES 

be  the  magic  power  of  these  Dakota  Druids  to  lead  such  a  man  as 
the  Rev.  S.  R.  Riggs  to  say  of  them:  "By  great  shrewdness,  untiring 
industry,  and  more  or  less  of  actual  demoniacal  possession,  they  con 
vince  great  numbers  of  their  fellows,  and  in  the  process  are  convinced 
themselves  of  their  sacred  character  and  office."  Tdhkoo  Wakdn, 
pp.  88-9. 

83  Gdh-ma-na-tek-wahk — the  river  of  many  falls — is  the   O  jib  way 
name  of  the  river  commonly  called  Kaministiguia,  near  the  mouth 
of  which  is  situated  Fort  William.     The  view  on  Thunder-Bay  is 
one   of  the   grandest   in   America.     Thunder-Cap,   with   its   sleeping 
stone-giant,  looms  up  into  the  heavens.     Here   Ka-be-bon-ikka — the 
Ojibway's  god  of  storms — flaps  his  huge  wings  and  makes  the  Thun 
der.     From  this  mountain  he  sends  forth  the  rain,  the  snow,  the  hail, 
the  lightning  and  the  tempest.     A  vast  giant,  turned  to  stone  by  his 
magic,  lies  asleep  at  his  feet.     The  island  called  by  the  Ojibways 
the  Mak-i-nak  (the  turtle)  from  its  tortoise-like  shape,  lifts  its  huge 
form  in  the  distance.     Some   "down-east  Yankee"   called  it   "Pie- 
island,"  from  its  fancied  resemblance  to  a  pumpkin  pie,  and  the  name, 
like  all  bad  names,  sticks.     McKay's  Mountain  on  the  mainland,  a 
perpendicular  rock  more  than  a  thousand  feet  high,  upheaved  by 
the  throes  of  some  vast  volcano,  and  numerous  other  bold  and  pre 
cipitous  headlands,  and  rock-built  islands,  around  which  roll  the  sap 
phire-blue  waters  of  the  fathomless  bay,  present  some  of  the  most 
magnificent  views  to  be  found  on  either  continent. 

84  The  Mission  of  the  Holy  Ghost — at  La  Pointe,  on  the  isle  Wauga- 
bd-me — (winding  view)   in    the    beautiful    bay  of    Cha-quam-egon — 
was  founded  by  the  Jesuits  about  the  year  1660.     Father  Rene  Me- 
nard  was  probably  the  first  priest  at  this  point.     After  he  was  lost 
in  the  wilderness,   Father  Glaude  Allouez  permanently  established 
the  mission  in  1665.     The  famous  Father  Marquette,  who  took  Al 
louez 's  place,  Sept.  13,   1669,  writing  to  his  superior,  thus  describes 
the  Dakotas:    "The  Nadouessi  are  the  Iroquois  of  this  country,  be 
yond  La  Pointe,  but  less  faithless,  and  never  attack  till  attacked.     Their 
language  is  entirely  different  from  the  Huron  and  Algonquin.     They 
have  many  villages  but  are  widely  scattered.     They  have  very  ex- 


NOTES  399 

traordinary  customs.  They  principally  use  the  calumet.  They 
do  not  speak  at  great  feasts,  and  when  a  stranger  arrives  give  him 
to  eat  of  a  wooden  fork,  as  we  would  a  child.  All  the  lake  tribes 
make  war  on  them,  but  with  small  success.  They  have  false  oats 
(wild  rice),  use  little  canoes,  and  keep  their  word  strictly."  NeilVs 
Hist.  Minn.,  p.  111. 

85  Michdbo   or   Manni-bozo — the   Good   Spirit   of   the   Algonkins. 
In  autumn,  in  the  moon  of  the  falling  leaf,  ere  he  composes  himself 
to  his  winter's  sleep,  he  fills  his  great  pipe  and  takes  a  god-like  smoke. 
The  balmy  clouds  from  his  pipe  float  over  the  hills  and  woodland, 
filling  the  air  with  the  haze  of  "Indian  Summer."     Brinton's  Myths 
of  the  New  World,  p.  163. 

86  Pronounced    Kah-thdh-gah — literally,    the   place   of  waves    and 
foam.     This  was  the  principal  village  of  the  Isantee  band  of  Dakotas 
two  hundred  years  ago,  and  was  located  at  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony > 
which  the  Dakotas  called  the   Ha-ha, — pronounced  Rhah-rhah, — the 
loud-laughing  waters.     The  Dakotas  believed  that  the  Falls  were  at 
the  center  of  the  earth.     Here  dwelt  the  Great   Unktehee,  the  creator 
of  the  earth  and  man;    and  from  this  place  a  path  led  to  the  Spirit- 
land.     DuLuth  undoubtedly  visited  Kathaga  in  the  year  1679.     In 
his  "Memoir"   (Archives  of  the  Ministry  of  the  Marine)   addressed 
to  Seignelay,  1685,  he  says:    "On  the  2nd  of  July,   1679,  I  had  the 
honor  to  plant  his  Majesty's  arms  in  the  great  village  of  the  Nadoue- 
cioux  called  Izatys,  where  never  had  a  Frenchman  been,  etc."     Izatys 
is  here  used  not  as  the  name  of  the  village,  but  as  the  name  of  the 
band — the  Isantees.      Nadouecioux  was  a  name  given  the  Dakotas 
generally  by  the  early  French  traders  and  the  Ojibways.     See  Shea's 
Hennepin's  Description  of  Louisiana,  pp.  203  and  375.     The  villages 
of  the  Dakotas  were  not  permanent  towns.     They  were  hardly  more 
than  camping  grounds,  occupied  at  intervals  and  for  longer  or  shorter 
periods,  as  suited  the  convenience  of  the  hunters;    yet  there  were 
certain  places,  like  Mille  Lacs,  the  Falls  of  St.   Anthony,    Kapoza 
(near  St.  Paul),  Remnica  (where  the  city  of  Red  Wing  now  stands), 
and  Keuxa  (or  Keozd)  on  the  site  of  the  city  of  Winona,  so  frequently 


400  NOTES 

occupied  by  several  of  the  bands  as  to  be  considered  their  chief  vil 
lages  respectively. 

Dr.  Neill,  usually  very  accurate  and  painstaking,  has  fallen  into 
an  error  in  his  prefatory  notes  to  the  last  edition  of  his  valuable  His 
tory  of  Minnesota.  Speaking  of  DuLuth,  he  says: 

"He  appears  to  have  entered  Minnesota  by  way  of  the  Pigeon 
or  St.  Louis  River,  and  to  have  explored  where  no  Frenchman  had 
been,  and  on  July  2,  1679,  was  at  Kathio"  (Kathdga)  "perhaps  on 
Red  Lake  or  Lake  of  the  Woods,  which  was  called  '  the  great  village 
of  the  Wadouessioux,'  one  hundred  and  twenty  leagues  from  the 
Songaskicons  and  Houetepons  who  were  dwellers  in  the  Mille  Lac 
region." 

Now  Kathdga  (Dr.  Neill's  Kathio)  was  located  at  the  Falls  of  St. 
Anthony  on  the  Mississippi  as  the  whole  current  of  Dakota  tradi 
tions  clearly  shows  and  DuLuth's  dispatches  clearly  indicate.  Be 
sides,  the  Songaskicons  and  Houetepons  were  not  and  never  were 
"dwellers  in  the  Mille  Lac  region."  The  Songaskicons  (Sissetons) 
were  at  that  time  located  on  the  Des  Moines  river  (in  Iowa),  and 
the  Houetabons  (Ouadebatons)  at  and  around  Big  Stone  Lake.  The 
Isantees  occupied  the  region  lying  between  the  mouth  of  the  Min 
nesota  River,  Spirit  Lake  (Mille  Lacs)  and  the  head  of  Lake  Superior 
with  their  principal  village — Kathdga — where  the  city  of  Minneapolis 
now  stands.  These  facts  account  for  the  "one  hundred  and  twenty 
leagues"  as  distances  were  roughly  reckoned  by  the  early  French 
explorers. 

September  1,  1678,  Daniel  Greysolon  DuLuth,  a  native  of  Lyons, 
France,  left  Quebec  to  explore  the  country  of  the  Dakotas.  "The 
next  year  (1679)  on  the  2nd  day  of  July,  he  caused  the  king's  arms 
to  be  planted  in  the  great  village  of  the  Nadouessioux  (Dakotas) 
called  Kathio"  (Kathaga)  "where  no  Frenchman  had  ever  been, 
also  at  the  Songaskicons  and  Houetabons,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
leagues  distant  from  the  former.  *  *  *  *  On  this  tour  he  visited 
Mille  Lacs,  which  he  called  Lake  Buade,  the  family  name  of  Fronte- 
nac,  governor  of  Canada."  NeilVs  History  of  Minnesota,  p.  122. 


NOTES  401 

This  is  correct,  except  the  name  of  the  village — Kathio,  which  is  a 
misprint  or  perhaps  an  error  of  a  copyist.  It  should  be  Kathdga. 
DuLuth  was  again  at  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  in  1680  and  returned 
to  Lake  Superior  via  the  Mississippi,  Rum  River  and  Mille  Lacs, 
according  to  his  own  dispatches. 

Franquelin's  "Carte  de  la  Louisiane"  printed  at  Paris  A.D.  1684, 
from  information  derived  from  DuLuth,  who  visited  France  in  1682-3, 
and  conferred  with  the  minister  of  the  Colonies  and  the  minister  of 
Marine — shows  the  inaccuracy,  as  to  points  of  compass  at  least,  of 
the  early  French  explorers.  According  to  this  map,  Lake  Buade 
(Mille  Lacs)  lies  north-west  of  Lake  Superior  and  Lake  Pepin  lies 
due  west  of  it. 

DuLuth  was  afterward  appointed  to  the  command  of  Fort  Fron- 
tenac,  and  died  there  in  1710.  The  official  dispatch  from  the  Gov 
ernor  of  Canada  to  the  French  Government  is,  as  regards  the  great 
explorer,  brief  and  expressive — "Capetaine  DuLuth  est  mort:  il  etait 
un  homme  honne'te." 

To  Daniel  Greysolon  DuLuth,  and  not  to  Father  Hennepin,  whom 
he  rescued  from  his  captors  at  Mille  Lacs,  belongs  the  credit  of  the 
first  exploration  of  Minnesota  by  white  men. 

Father  Hennepin  was  a  self-conceited  and  self-convicted  liar. 
Daniel  Greysolon  DuLuth  "was  an  honest  man." 

Father  Hennepin,  after  leaving  La  Salle,  was  captured  by  the 
Dakotas  on  the  Mississippi  River,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the  Wis 
consin  in  1678,  and  was  taken  by  the  Isantees  via  the  Mississippi  and 
St.  Croix  Rivers  to  Mille  Lacs  (Lake  Buade — Spirit  Lake)  where  he 
was  the  prisoner-guest  of  chief  Akee-pa-kee-tin,  until  he  was  released 
by  DuLuth  in  1679,  and  taken  down  the  Rum  River  and  the  Missis 
sippi  to  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  and  further  south  in  quest  of  La 
Salle.— H.  L.  G. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SEA-GULL. 


1  Kay-dshk  is  the  O  jib  way  name  of  the  sea-gull. 

2  Gitchee — great, — Gumee — sea    or    lake, — Lake    Superior;      also 
often  called  Ochipwe  Gitchee  Gumee,  Great  lake  (or  sea)  of  the  Ojib- 
ways. 

3  Ne-me-Shdmis — my  grandfather.     "In  the  days  of  my  grand 
father"  is  the  Ojib way's  preface  to  his  traditions  and  legends. 

4  Waub — white — O-jeeg — fisher  (a  furred  animal).     White  Fisher 
was  the  name  of  a  noted  Ojibway  chief  who  lived  on  the  south  shore 
of  Lake  Superior  many  years  ago.     Schoolcraft  married  one  of  his 
descendants. 

5  Ma-kiva  or  mush-kwa — the  bear. 

6  The  Te-ke-ndh-gun  is  a  board  upon  one  side  of  which  a  sort  of 
basket  is  fastened  or  woven  with  thongs  of  skin  or  strips  of  cloth. 
In  this  the  babe  is  placed  and  the  mother  carries  it  on  her  back.     In 
the  wigwam  the  tekenagun  is  often  suspended  by  a  cord  to  the  lodge- 
poles  and  the  mother  swings  her  babe  in  it. 

7  Wabdse    (or    Wabos) — the    rabbit.     Pendy,    the    pheasant.     At 
certain  seasons  the  male  pheasant  drums  with  his  wings. 

8  Kaug,  the  porcupine.      Kenew,  the  war-eagle. 

9  Ka-be-bon-ik-ka  is  the  god  of  storms,   thunder,  lightning,   etc. 
His  home  is  on  Thunder-Cap  at  Thunder-Bay,  Lake  Superior.     By 
his  magic  the  giant  that  lies  on  the  mountain  was  turned  to  stone. 
He  always  sends  warnings  before  he  finally  sends  the  severe  cold 
of  winter,  in  order  to  give  all  creatures  time  to  prepare  for  it. 

10  Kewdydin  or  Kewdytin,  is  the  North  wind  or  North-west  wind. 

402 


PAH-GO-XAY-GIE-SHIEK  ("HOLE-IN-THE-DAY") 

From  a  photograph  presented  to  the  author  by  the  chief. 


NOTES    TO    THE  SEA-GULL  403 

11  Algdnkin  is  the  general  name  applied  to  all  tribes  that  speak 
the  Ojibway  language  or  dialects  of  it. 

12  This  is  the  favorite  "love-broth"  of  the  Ojibway  squaws.     The 
warrior  who  drinks  it  immediately  falls  desperately  in  love  with  the 
woman  who  gives  it  to  him.     Various  tricks  are  devised  to  conceal 
the  nature  of  the  "medicine"  and  to  induce  the  warrior  to  drink  it; 
but  when  it  is  mixed  with  a  liberal  quantity  of  "fire-water"  it  is  con 
sidered  irresistible. 

13  Translation:  Woe-is-me!     Woe-is-me! 

Great  Spirit,  behold  me! 

Look,  Father;   have  pity  upon  me! 

Woe-is-me !     Woe-is-me ! 

14  Snow-storms  from  the  North-west. 

15  The  Ojibways,  like  the  Dakotas,  call  the   Via  Lactea  (Milky 
Way)  the  Pathway  of  the  Spirits. 

16  Shinge-bis,  the  diver,  is  the  only  water-fowl  that  remains  on 
Lake  Superior  all  winter. 

17  Waub-ese — the  white  swan. 

18  Pe-bodn,  Winter,  is  represented  as  an  old  man  with  long  white 
hair  and  beard. 

19  Segun  is  Spring  (or  Summer).     This  beautiful  allegory  has  been 
"done   into   verse"   by   Longfellow  in    Hiawatha.     Longfellow  evi 
dently  took  his  version  from  Schoolcraft.     I  took  mine  originally 
from    the    lips    of    Pah- go-nay -gie-shiek — "Hole-in-the-day,"    in    his 
day  head-chief  of  the  Ojibways.     I  afterward  submitted  it  to  Gitche 
Shabdsh-  Konk,    head-chief    of   the    Misse-sah-ga-e-gun — (Mille    Lacs 
band  of  Ojibways) ,  who  pronounced  it  correct. 

"Hole-in-the-day,"  although  sanctioned  by  years  of  unchallenged 
use,  is  a  bad  translation  of  Pah- go-nay- gie-shiek,  which  means  a  clear 
spot  in  the  sky. 

He  was  a  very  intelligent  man;  had  been  in  Washington  several 
times  on  business  connected  with  his  people,  and  was  always  shrewd 
enough  to  look  out  for  himself  in  all  his  treaties  and  transactions 
with  the  Government.  He  stood  six  feet  two  inches  in  his  moccasins, 


404  NOTES    TO    THE  SEA-GULL 

was  well-proportioned,  and  had  a  remarkably  fine  face.  He  had  a 
nickname — Que-we-zdnc — (Little  Boy)  by  which  he  was  familiarly 
called  by  his  people.  Little  Boy  River  in  Cass  County,  Minnesota, 
is  named  after  him.  Its  Ojibway  name  is  Que-we-zdnc. 

The  Pillagers — N  ah-kdnd-tway-we-nin-ni-wak — who  live  about 
Leech  Lake  (Kah-sah-gah-squah-g-me-cock)  were  opposed  to  Pa-go- 
nay-gie-shiek,  but  he  compelled  them  through  fear  to  recognize  him 
as  Head-Chief.  At  the  time  of  the  "Sioux  outbreak"  in  1862  "  Hole- 
in-the-day"  for  a  time  apparently  meditated  an  alliance  with  the 
Po-dh-nuck  (Dakotas)  and  war  upon  the  whites.  The  Pillagers  and 
some  other  bands  urged  him  strongly  to  this  course,  and  his  supremacy 
as  head-chief  was  threatened  unless  he  complied.  Messengers  from 
the  Dakotas  were  undoubtedly  received  by  him,  and,  he  for  a  time 
at  least,  led  the  Dakotas  to  believe  that  their  hereditary  enemies,  the 
Ojibways,  would  bury  the  hatchet  and  join  them  in  a  war  of  exter 
mination  against  the  whites.  "Hole-in-the-day,"  with  a  band  of  his 
warriors,  appeared  opposite  Fort  Ripley  (situate  on  the  west  bank 
of  the  Mississippi  River  between  Little  Falls  and  Crow  Wing),  and 
assumed  a  threatening  attitude  toward  the  fort,  then  garrisoned  by 
volunteer  troops.  The  soldiers  were  drawn  up  on  the  right  bank  and 
"Hole-in-the-day"  and  his  warriors  on  the  left.  A  little  speech- 
making  settled  the  matter  for  the  time  being  and  very  soon  there 
after  a  new  treaty  was  made  with  "Hole-in-the-day"  and  his  head 
men,  by  which  their  friendship  and  allegiance  were  secured  to  the 
whites.  It  was  claimed  by  the  Pillagers  that  "Hole-in-the-day" 
seized  the  occasion  to  profit  personally  in  his  negotiations  with  the 
agents  of  the  Government. 

In  1867  "Hole-in-the-day"  took  "another  wife."  He  married 
Helen  McCarty,  a  white  woman,  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  took  her 
to  his  home  at  Gull  Lake  (Ka-ga-ya-skunc-cock)  (literally,  plenty  of 
little  gulls}. 

She  bore  him  a  son  who  is  known  as  Joseph  H.  Woodbury,  and 
resides  in  the  city  of  Minneapolis.  Hole-in-the-day 's  marriage  with 
a  white  woman  increased  the  hatred  of  the  Pillagers,  and  they  shot 


NOTES    TO    THE  SEA-GULL  405 

and  killed  him  from  ambush  near  Ninge-td-we-de-gud-yonk — Crow 
Wing — on  the  27th  day  of  June,  1868. 

At  the  time  of  his  death,  "Hole-in-the-day  "  was  only  thirty-seven 
years  old  but  had  been  recognized  as  Head-Chief  for  a  long  time. 
He  could  speak  some  English,  and  was  far  above  the  average  of  white 
men  in  native  shrewdness  and  intelligence.  He  was  thoroughly 
posted  in  the  traditions  and  legends  of  his  people. 

The  Ojibways  have  for  many  years  been  cursed  by  contact  with 
the  worst  elements  of  the  whites,  and  seem  to  have  adopted  the  vices 
rather  than  the  virtues  of  civilization.  I  once  spoke  of  this  to  "  Hole- 
in-the-day."  His  reply  was  terse  and  truthful — "Madge  tche-md- 
ko-mon,  mddge  a-nische-ndbe:  menoge  tche-md-ko-mon,  mend  a-nische- 
ndbe. — Bad  white  men,  bad  Indians:  good  white  men,  good  In 
dians."— H.  L.  G. 

20  Nah — look,  see.     Nashk6 — behold. 

21  Kee-zis — the  sun, — the  father  of  life.     Waubunong — or  Waub. 
6-nong — is  the  White  Land  or  Land  of  Light, — the  Sun-rise,  the  East. 

22  The  Bridge  of  Stars  spans  the  vast  sea  of  the  skies,  and  the  sun 
and  moon  walk  over  on  it. 

23  The  Miscodeed  is  a  small  white  flower  with  a  pink  border.     It 
is  the  earliest  blooming  wild  flower  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Superior, 
and  belongs  to  the  crocus  family. 

24  The  Ne-be-naw-baigs,  are  Water-spirits;    they  dwell  in  caverns 
in  the  depths  of  the  lake,  and  in  some  respects  resemble  the    Unk~ 
tehee  of  the  Dakotas. 

25  Ogema,    Chief, — Oge-md-kwd — female    Chief.     Among   the    Al- 
gonkin  tribes  women  are  sometimes  made  chiefs.     Net-nd-kwa,  who 
adopted  Tanner  as  her  son,  was  Oge-md-kwd  of  a  band  of  Ottawas. 
See  John  Tanner's  Narrative,  p.  36. 

26  The  "Bridge  of  Souls"  leads  from  the  earth  over  dark  and 
stormy  waters  to  the  spirit-land.     The  "Dark  River"  seems  to  have 
been  a  part  of  the  superstitions  of  all  nations . 

27  The  Jossakeeds  of  the  Ojibways  are  soothsayers  who  are  able, 
by  the  aid  of  spirits,  to  read  the  past  as  well  as  the  future. 

FINIS 


ERRATA 

Reader:  —  Please  correct  with  a  pen  the  following  typographical  errors  in 
this  volume,  viz : 

THE  MISSISSIPPI — 

Page  1,  line  16  —  read  tribes  instead  of  tribe. 
THE  FEAST  OF  THE  VIRGINS — 

Page  39,  line  20  —  read  chalice  instead  of  chance. 

WlNONA 

Page  44,  line  14 —  read  tumbles  and  twirls,  instead  of  whirls. 

Page  53,  line  20  at  the  end  of  Teshakay,  81  (instead  of  82). 

Page  56,  line  24  read  doe  instead  of  dog. 

Page  66,  line  13  —  read  Kathdga. 
PAULINE — 

Page  105,  line  3 — read  truer  heroes. 

Page  129,  4th  line  from  bottom  —  read  As  one  we  sprang. 

Page  143,  3rd  line  from  bottom  — read  apple-blossoms. 

Page  144,  2nd  line  from  bottom  —  read  etherial  blue. 

Page  155,  line  20  —  read    Thus  hushing  my  sad  heart. 

Page  158,  2nd  line  from  bottom  —  read  Adown  the  meadowy  dale. 

Page  162,  line  6  —  read  tomes  instead  of  tones. 

Page  163,  line  7  —  read  I  seized  her  pictured  face. 

Page  170,  4th  line  from  bottom  —  read  Domed  the  fair  temple. 

Page  175,  line  14  —  read  And  in  hoarse  whisper. 

Page  175,  line  16 —  read  And  he  awoke  (instead  of  woke}. 

Page  176,  next  to  last  line  —  read  As  I  arose  (instead  of  rose). 
POETRY — 

Page  263,  line  10  —  read  pure  and  purling  streams. 
SPRING — 

Page  268,  line  5  —  read  Indian  Isles  instead  of  Isle. 
THE  PIONEER — 

Page  279,  line  4  read  —  I  fed  my  steers  (instead  of  steer). 
THE  DONNYBROOK  FAIR — 

Page  347,  line'  9  —  read  alus  a-nubblin'  instead  of  a-nubbin '. 

There  are  many  typographical  errors  in  punctuation  which  must  be  left  to 
the  judgment  of  the  reader. 

H.  L.  G. 


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